Flickers
by bugsfic
Summary: How do you rebuild the perfect love when it is shattered? Or do you even try?
1. Chapter 1

_Warnings: Season 4 Anna/Bates canon fic, thus occasional disturbing references. Also graphic consensual sexual situations._

_Spoilers: S4:1-3_

_A/N: Yes, everyone's writing these Anna/Bates Season four fics, but I can't help myself. I must fix things. It's a compulsion. The good news is, I don't foresee this being more than six parts. (I promise myself)_

* * *

When Anna was still just one of many housemaids, the Earl returned from an Italian visit with a lovely gift for his wife. It was a blown glass globe, as fine and delicate as a gossamer soap bubble. Inside, a courtly couple were frozen in a dance, their limbs bright, translucent glass. The lady has tiny bowed red lips; the gentleman wore a pale wig. It was the loveliest thing that the young maid had ever seen in a house full of lovely objects. Perhaps it was the way that sunlight came through the glass, making the dancers sparkle as they pranced in the sun.

But within a year, while doing her daily dusting, she noticed the slightest of fractures in the globe, starting at one of the gold-plated legs. At first, she was unsure to tell anyone, fearing that she'd be blamed, but she loved it too much not to say anything. Perhaps it could be repaired.

She informed Mrs. Hughes, who showed the crack to Lady Grantham. A glassware artisan was brought up from London but he said nothing could be done. Instead, the object was turned so the fissure did not show. This was almost better for Anna, as the dancers were now seen from another angle. The gentleman's frock coat had tiny gold buttons on the tails, and the lady's hooped skirt swirled out with her movement.

Perhaps the heat from the nearby window was causing it to break. The cleft grew longer each year, until it could be seen no matter how the globe was turned. With regret, her ladyship had it put in storage. There was talk of contacting the artist in Venice and demanding a replacement but then Patrick Crawley died and the Earl became too distracted to write a letter about some silly thing he purchased ten years previously.

Anna often thought of the couple's solitary beauty as she fell in love with John Bates. He was her partner; hers alone. Like the dancers cocooned in their globe, others could observe but not truly touch she and John.

Until tonight.

She had been fractured and their world shattered from the heat of her anguish. She could think of nothing more as she stumbled home in the dark. Every step caused pain, cleaving her body into two parts. Her bones were bruised, her lip torn. And behind her, a deep shadow followed, giving her that distance that she'd demanded, but his presence could not be denied.

The cottage loomed ahead. Normally their sanctuary, now a cell for her. But she was prepared with a mask in place when he came through the door. She'd lit only one candle; darkness was her cloak now.

"I won't sleep with this headache. I'll do some washing up," she said, focused on a spot over his shoulder. "Go on to bed."

"I'll help," John said, hanging up his overcoat. He lit another candle and took a step toward her.

"No. You'll just be in the way." Yes, cruelty was necessary. She'd only spent a few hours in Vera Bates' company, but Anna observed the woman's gift for knife-edged speech, and in those moments, she saw why John would shy away at the harsh word, anticipating the stinging blow before the hand was even raised.

She turned her back as though he'd already accepted her rejection. His shadow remained for a few breath-holding moments as she put a kettle on to heat water and began to busily gather kitchen laundry as if it was deadly important to scrub them at midnight.

Finally, his dragging step mounted the stairs. "Don't stay up too late," he called down from the landing.

"I'll be as long as it takes," she said, not giving even an inch. She must start as she intended to go.

When their bedroom door closed above, a shudder passed through her body, but not from the room's chill. She must bathe but didn't dare fill more than a dishpan. Taking the cake of soap from the bench and a few tea towels, she hid in a corner and removed the borrowed dress. She thanked God for the darkness. She didn't want to see. But the smell of him—no, he was not a man. _It_ was a beast. She scrubbed at the animal musk with harsh carbolic soap. The cuts and abrasions burned and she welcomed the pain; it kept her from thinking. When finished, she put the dress back on but took the towels outside to the bury in the burn barrel and tossed the used water in an arc across the muddy yard. Only then could she curl up in John's large armchair to wait for the dawn. There would be no sleep.

The silence held only her heartbeat in counter rhythm with the seven day clock that hung on the wall. The chair squeaked when she shifted and that noise was what finally made her cry, a silent gasp that must have been how the globe's glass had sounded as it fractured.

Moonlight and wind-stirred branches cast shadows on the plaster walls like the dancing flickers on the picture show's screen. She wanted to be in Ripon's dark cinema, watching another story far away from her reality. A fable of a man as she'd never know again and a woman lost to her. Their tale had been so lovely while it had lasted.

The film began with the woman coming through the cottage door on another late night to find the man dressed to go out.

"Where have you been?" he demanded to know before she could even speak. "You were to be back hours ago."

She gave his arm a squeeze but kept walking. She was so tired that she knew if she stopped now, she'd never get sorted out. But she halted when she saw their table was set, candles guttered, and lovely meadow flowers drooping in a vase.

"Oh John," she said, her shoulders slumping.

He'd put his hat and coat back on the hooks by the door and joined her in the room. "Where've you been?" he repeated. "I was worried sick."

Sick reminded her of how she smelled. She wrinkled her nose. "I need to bathe, or at least wipe myself down," she said, then sighed in disappointment. It was too late to be clanking the pump out back of the cottage to fill the hip bath.

"We can manage something," John said, opening the stove and stoking it back up. He tossed a scuttle full of coal onto the glowing embers. "There's the buckets full for the morning. I'll heat that."

"I'm bone tired," she said, realizing that she sounded as though she was whining and not the least bit romantic. "I'm sorry," she added.

He only laughed. "Valentine's Day is just a day on the calendar." He filled a kettle, putting it on a burner on the stove, and added a large water-filled pot. "We'll have a passionate fifteenth," he promised.

Grateful, Anna went upstairs to retrieve her nightclothes and hairbrush. She removed her soiled uniform with a shudder and put on her robe over her naked body. When she returned, John had set up the wash tub.

"The water's still heating," he told her, "take a seat and let me brush out your hair."

She started to protest that she could do it herself, but then another wave of exhaustion came over her and with a shrug, she sat at the table and allowed her husband to take down her hair. He carefully piled the pins on the table, then combed the tresses first with his fingers before beginning to brush the length from her scalp to the ends.

"Thank you," she said quietly. His reply was to squeeze the tight muscles of her shoulders.

"You work too hard," he chided before shedding his own suit jacket.

"It was a long day, that's all."

Going to the stove, he filled the teapot with a bit of the heating water and made her a strong cup with plenty of cream and sugar.

"Awfully late to be drinking tea," she said, watching him from under her eyelashes but he only smiled in return.

Scooting his chair close, he leaned his shoulder into hers. "You'll sleep like a baby, no worries."

Vaguely, she thought of what usually put her right to sleep in their evenings and drank deeply from her tea. She told him of Ivy's misadventures of the evening.

"So many times, I'm reminded why I'm glad not to be a young man anymore," he said ruefully after she finished.

"Truly?" Anna said, tipping her head as she examined him. Her smile held one of her secrets. "I've yearned to see you as a lad, just to know the person you were."

He snorted. "You would have pushed me off in about five minutes flat. God, I was bast-" He cleared his throat. "Let's just say that I understand that idiot boy Jimmy more than I should."

She raised her eyebrows and fought a smile. "Now I'm intrigued! You, more of a sheik than even our Jimmy?"

He just shook his head. "Please don't tell me that bloke makes your heart pitter-patter. I'd hate to have to take him out the far pond and push him in." His tone was mild but his eyes blazed.

She lost the battle with her grin. "Not in the least. But I do appreciate his dimples and profile."

Bates just rolled his eyes. "It's the beautiful Turk all over again. If you could have heard you women in the servants' hall," he said severely. "Even Miss O'Brien was in a tizzy!"

Anna was smug as a cat with a feather under her paw, but then she remembered the blank dead eyes of that unfortunate young man and momentarily lost her good humor. She returned to the topic at hand: "But you're only intriguing me more with these visions of a dashing young Mr. Bates. I found no photographs in your mother's things, more the pity."

"I was a boy before there was photography," he said gloomily, ignoring her gasp of protest. "And you would have been a babe in nappies if we'd met, not in the least impressed by my dimples at the time."

Her giggles covered his grumble. He rose and began to fill the tub with hot water, adding cooler water from the buckets until he was satisfied with the temperature. He urged her move her chair by the tub.

"Feet first," he suggested, rolling up his sleeves and pulling a footstool to sit by the tub as well.

"I can wash myself," insisted Anna, but her protests died on her lips when he took her aching foot in his large hands and worked out the tightness with soap and warm water, first one, then the other.

"Oh, that is nice," she conceded, combing back his hair as it fell over his brow.

"Now the rest of you," he said, offering his hand for balance as she stood in the tub. "Is it warm enough?" he asked as she shed her robe.

"Nice and warm." She reached for pins to loosely put up her hair.

When she finished, he began to slide the soapy wash flannel over her tired limbs, gentle. "That feels lovely," she admitted, dropping her head to give him access to the back of her neck.

"Perhaps it's not grand, romantic gestures that can mark one's love, but just giving the pleasure that's needed on the day," John suggested, gracing her shoulder with a kiss.

"This feels very romantic and grand at the moment," she teased, lifting her arms so he could wipe down her ribs. She fought a giggle, more for the need to feel his grin on her neck than from being overly ticklish.

Then his hands came to her breasts and he was ridiculously somber, intent on his duty to carefully cleanse her tender skin and puckering nipples. She giggled again and laced her fingers through the short hair at the back his head to pull him down for a sideways kiss over her shoulder.

"Must get you clean all over," he said, still maintaining his serious manner.

"All over?" she breathed and shifted her legs apart. She was fully awake now.

Steam rose from the water tub, sufficing Anna's limbs with warm moisture. John was a shadow that pressed lips to her shoulders and neck and whose large hands slid down to stroke her stomach and thighs, responding to her unspoken invitation.

Her legs gave out and she leaned back against him. "Don't get wet," she warned, her voice oddly raspy to her ears.

He chuckled, the motion pressing his buttons and watchchain into her bare back. "It's worth it," he whispered as though they were in the crowded servants' hall and not their own home. She quickly looked to the windows; the curtains were tightly closed. But she still felt so wicked to be naked like this; to behave in this manner by the bright light of the oil lamp, even if only her husband and God could see.

"You are very conscientious," she said, but was frustrated that she couldn't touch him properly, other than grasping at his clothed shoulder. "You should bathe too," she suggested.

"I did earlier," he said, and she was reminded again of their spoiled evening. To have a late night respite, drink wine for her, and tea for him, exchange banal news of their day, but with anticipation in every word...

"I'm sorry," she repeated but her words shook as he continued to stroke and kiss her. "But I suppose things are looking up-"

"Indeed," he said, laughter in his voice and she giggled again.

"Then let's get me washed off," she said, ever practical, reaching down to splash water over her limbs.

"So eager," he noted, but was just as earnest. He poured a bucket of still warm water over her shoulders, sloughing off the last of the suds.

Draping her robe over her shoulders, he helped her from the tub. But before he could lead her upstairs, she snared his hand and tugged him back.

"It'll be perishing cold upstairs," she pointed out. "Let's stay by the stove."

He didn't disguise the disappointment on his face but then she led him to his armchair and pushed him down.

"You're going to wish you'd undressed," she said tartly, crawling into his lap.

"I still could." He reached for his tie.

She batted his hands away. "No, you missed your chance."

The robe slid to her waist and she wrapped her arms around his neck. His mouth was at her collarbone while his fingertips traced her spine, her ribs, across her shoulders. He gazed up at her, his eyes glazed over as though drunk and she supposed he was, in his own way. She laid her head on his shoulder.

"I'll allow one thing," she had murmured, her nimble fingers working open the fly of his pants. His chest rose as his breath quickened, but he allowed her to continue alone. Instead, he pressed his lips to her brow, threading his hands into her hair, pulling it loose from the pins so that they rained down her back. Her seeking touch found his heat under the layers of clothing, stroking his length and breadth.

Had _It_ seen this about her? Her wanton abandon? Couldn't _It_ see that her manner was for just one man, that she was no harlot? Even as she reveled in the carnal pleasures with her husband, she had felt as though Reverend Travis was speaking to them when his sermon had railed against dominating women. The sort of women who emasculated their men—At that, John had shifted his leg on the pew so that it pressed against hers, and had glanced at her from under his lashes, a smile playing on his lips...

She was sinner—She couldn't stop watching now, greedily recording John's smack mouth as she had undulated on his lap, his gasps of reverence, her name…How her name could take on so much meaning in the combination to two syllables. He rarely called to God. Only her. The color that his eyes became while he watched her; deep green as the darkest forest, and all the secrets hidden there. And then the black eyelashes drifting closed when she rose at his bidding so that he may suckle at her breasts, his hand exploring the secret depths between her legs, her own cries, shockingly loud in the night's silence, the pure white of her knuckles as she gripped his shoulder and burrowed through his hair.

To see herself sink on to him again, grab his waistcoat in her fists, to demand her husband lose his control even as she refused that he may even remove his tie. For too many years, he'd remain cloistered in his heavy woolen uniform, shackled by his starched cuffs and collar. And as if he'd taken monastic vows, he'd seemed to revel in his self-imposed imprisonment. That night, he would pay. In the very deepest recesses of her mind, she'd envisioned such a moment many times before, perhaps taken in a linen cupboard, or in the dusty attics under the low roof. His penance for holding her love and passion at bay would be crumpled clothing, her scent ground into the very fibers, never to be washed away.

She was rewarded. His head flung back, his torso arched, his hips surged, the tendons of his neck red and hard, constricted by his stiff collar but most of all, his voice babbling out his love, her grip forcing the words from him in a flood. The wicks burned low in the oil lamps, and the walls shimmered deep gold with the light.

Afterward, they had curled together, waiting for their thundering hearts to still. He lifted her robe back up onto her shoulders as she buried her head under his chin. He was all around her, thick thighs under her quaking legs, strong arms wrapping about her back, his deep respirations at her temple, filling her empty lungs.

"My love." His words were river deep, winding through her bloodstream. "The only woman for me. Heart that gives me life. I do not live without you."

She smiled against his neck, feeling the rasp of his stubble even after his evening shave, reminding her once again that he was a man and she was a woman. She rubbed her soft cheek against it as a marking. The clock softly chimed midnight.

"Valentine's Day is over," he said regretfully.

She giggled, still nestled close. "Turned out better than you expected?"

His laugh had rumbled against her fluttering chest and Anna could remember no more than great exhaustion and completion. The screen faded to black and the final card with _The End_ came up. The heavy red curtain fell. Wiping her face dry, she told herself that she always cried when she enjoyed a picture show.

Cocking her head, Anna listened for the sounds of her husband above. He lay in their bed; she could feel the warmth radiating from his body even downstairs. She wanted that now; desperately needed it. But he would smell the beast on her. Even after scrubbing her skin raw, she could smell_ It_. The room became ice blue with the dawn. She would go to the Abbey before John woke and could question her. With a painful creak of her limbs, she rose. She glanced at the wall but it was washed white by the first sunlight. The story was truly over.

~ end, Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2: Broken Blossoms

_Spoilers: 2.7, 4.4, 4.5_

_Warnings: Season 4 Anna/Bates canon fic, thus occasional disturbing references. Also graphic consensual sexual situations._

_Summary: When the thing we want the most becomes a curse._

_A/N: I know this is a rough ride for some Anna fans. But there's also no shame in skimming to the smut. Not that I've ever done that in a fic. *shifting eyes*_

* * *

Other women yearned to be called pretty or told they had a fine figure. The most wonderful thing a man had ever said to Anna was that she was brave. First her father had told her when she was still just a tiny thing, "You've got the courage of the Vikings in you, my girl." That was her proudest day until a former warrior, a man so large and powerful as to block the sun when they walked together, said that her courage was his true crutch. Then her soul was rendered complete.

That had all been taken from her with the speed of blows on her skull, torn away like her clothing. She was a trembling coward now. Like how she waited until all the servants were together at supper to tell John she was leaving him.

"If I'm to take care of Lady Grantham as well as Lady Mary, I'll have to move back into the Abbey," she announced loud enough for others to hear. The table instantly fell silent. All eyes were on John. Any other time, her statement would have gone unnoticed. But Mrs Hughes wasn't the only one noting Anna's distant manner and her husband's constantly tormented expression.

He carefully swallowed the bite which he'd been chewing. "Is that necessary?" he asked, his tone mild. "You shouldn't overwork yourself while you're still recovering."

She twitched. He had no way of knowing those were the wrong words. "That's why I'm doing it. I won't have that walk and can rest during the day." She took a sip of tea.

"I'm sure we'll be getting a new maid for her ladyship very soon," said Thomas from across the table, smirking. "I've recommended someone I know from London."

"She'll be a peach then," snapped Mrs. Hughes. "She'll also, of course, be on the approval of myself, Mr. Carson and her ladyship."

"_Of course_, Mrs. Hughes," replied Thomas, but he was still watching Anna and Bates.

Anna dropped her gaze to her lap where her pale fingers twisted together in her lap. She had no appetite and meals were agony as she pushed the food around, cutting it into smaller and smaller pieces in the hope it would look as though less was on her plate. When she were to feel the least bit nauseous, the terror of pregnancy overwhelmed her. How many years she'd wished for that feeling, only to now see every twist of her gut as a sign of her destruction.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched John's hands curl in tight fists on his napkin. Ever before, he'd ease a finger over to stroke her thigh, perhaps find her bare wrist under the table, a signal that would have her blood thumping and a flush on her cheeks, knowing what awaited them at home—No, his cottage. No longer her home.

She rose. "So that's that." She could feel his gaze on her stiff shoulders as she left the servants' hall. He did not follow.

* * *

"Everything's in the auto, Mrs. Hughes," said Anna, putting her head into the housekeeper's sitting room. "Lady Mary wanted to say goodbye to Master George before we left for the station." She checked the clock and relaxed when she saw they had plenty of time.

Mrs. Hughes was at her desk. "In that case, do come in, Anna," she urged.. "And close the door," she added, ignoring the tension in the younger woman's shoulders. She hoped to give Anna some fruit for thought for while the younger woman was in London even though her first foray on the subject had been met with obstinate resistance.

"Have some tea," she suggested, starting to pour out cups.

"I'm fine." Anna glanced at the clock again and remained standing. "I can't make her ladyship late."

"You won't. They'll come for you when Lady Mary is ready." Mrs Hughes looked at her shrewdly. "Besides, if you're in the corridor, Mr. Bates will want to have a parting and you want to avoid that, right?"

That tight set to Anna's jaw returned.

Mrs. Hughes wasn't going to give an inch either. "Hearing it aloud make it sound even more foolish?"

"Don't-" Anna shook her head violently. "I just have to get away. Last night was awful-" She clutched her hands tightly to keep them from shaking. She'd spent the previous night curled in John's chair after driving him to their bed alone with harsh words.

"You cannot simply avoid your own husband-"

"He'll know if he even stands close to me-I can't get the smell off me-" Anna began to wring her hands in a manner that Mrs. Hughes found deeply disturbing.

"Mr. Bates mustn't see me unclothed. I can't hide from him for the weeks it'll take for these marks to heal. If he sees them-" she said tonelessly. "No stumble on the flagstones would have done that- "

Mrs. Hughes flushed. "Anna, I beg of you, you must go to the doctor. He could tell the police the extent of your injuries-"

"And what? Only to have everything twisted and made more vile?" Anna spat out. "Have some lawyer say that I asked for this? Wanted it?"

"How could anyone look at your face...Your body...and say you wanted this?" insisted Mrs. Hughes. "I'll tell them how I found you here-"

Anna's deep eyes blazed like blue flames. "As you testified at Mr. Bates' first trial?"

The housekeeper flinched.

"What will you say when asked how I was towards that..._beast_? Will you admit that I laughed at his jokes? That I gave him coy smiles? That I asked him to show us the card game and played it with gusto? Dare you say, passion?"

"But Anna-"

After her day trapped in silence, Anna couldn't stop the words from flooding out: "No woman is above this sort of defamation. I've known Lady Mary since we were girls. Do I believe for one moment that she would invite some foreign man into her bedroom, a man she's known for one day, and toss away her virtue for a night with him? And yet everyone from London to our own downstairs has called her slut. If Mr. Crawley hadn't married her, she would still be under the infamy. So what chance does her maid have?"

"But that was different." Mrs. Hughes was truly distressed. "She's always said—"

"She put on a brave face. Which is worse? To be a silly fool who led on a man and got what she deserved or to be a whore? It's the same to the world," Anna insisted.

"Do not paint yourself, or Lady Mary, with such a dark brush!" demanded Mrs. Hughes, rising with her spine rigid.

Anna went on unheeded. "Mr. Bates spent years under the shame of marriage to a slut. Everyone pointed and laughed at this cripple cuckolded by his wife. I will not do that to him again."

"He would never see you as that—"

"No." Anna took a deep breath. "We believed that we live in our own precious bubble…but we can't. The whispers will kill us. Even if I can keep him away from prison, I cannot protect him from the shame."

Helpless, the housekeeper dropped into her chair, her tea now cold and forgotten. "My poor child-"

Clamping her teeth to bite off everything that she'd said, Anna stared at the clock again. Time was moving so slowly since her attack.

As though reading her thoughts, Mrs. Hughes asked, "How long until you know...About a pregnancy?"

"Two weeks." The minute hand jerked forward. "I must go," Anna said, able to leave the room at last.

* * *

The Abbey had always felt like a fortress to Anna, a place of safety and comfort. Now it was where this thing had happened, and yet it was where she sought refuge. For the cottage was a much more terrifying place. There, she might cry and if she cried, she would be lost. She must hold herself as solid as this great house's fortifications.

In the familiar surroundings of the basement warren, she moved with studied steps, keeping that hard veneer intact, even if it was as delicate as the glossy shellac on Lady Mary's Chinoise jewelry box, prone to scratches at the slightest touch. It was important to keep her mind occupied, or else it would see the same thing over and over again, darkness with only one glaring orb-a face. A terrible, terrible grinning visage.

When she was overcome by this paralysis, she sat alone at the servants' hall table, clutched her hands together and forced herself to focus on another time. On that confident, determined young woman who'd decided that John Bates was for her, had ordered him to get a marriage license and had stood with squared shoulders to marry him. That Anna was as exciting to watch as Lillian Gish dashing across ice floes in _Way Down East_.

Once, Anna had been a bold lass like a film heroine. Not a wayward girl like Ethel, who foolishly believed that a giving herself to a man would gain her all that she wanted in the world. No, Anna had met a stranger and in the first touch of his hand, knew he was the very best man for her. For the first and only time in her life, she overcame all objections and obstacles to happiness as confidently as Lady Mary's Diamond took the high brush fence. She'd even faced her wedding night with thrilled determination and no maidenish fluttering of her heart. It could make her laugh now if her throat could make that sound again.

There was a rasping gasp, and she realized it was a sort of a laugh. Because perhaps she really had rushed her fence a bit with that wedding night. A full-on leap, and only once she was in the air, she'd no idea wheresoever she would land.

Now she couldn't trust herself to even put one foot in front of the other without stumbling. She had behaved as she always did, forward and friendly with a new face in the servants' hall, ignoring her husband's reticent manner when she wanted to have a few minutes of fun. But her judgment had been terribly wrong and she'd paid a horrendous price. From that day forward, she couldn't seem to make any decisions. She couldn't even select the right thread to repair Lady Mary's gowns or choose the correct solvent to clean some tar from the toe of her favorite pair of walking shoes.

Blinking hard, she picked up her sewing. Ivory thread. She must use that shade of white. The twisting strands, the fine silk...She would go to another picture show, and fill her thoughts with that girl with the golden hair and the ready laugh. Her hero was tall, dark, and despite his objections, handsome.

They were on the bus back from Ripon and she was still clutching her bouquet in one hand and holding the hand of John-_her husband_-with the other.

"I suppose we should tell Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes; not bother the family quite yet," he suggested.

"I don't know about that," she said, squeezing his fingers. "Let's just have it be our secret until after the funeral. They have enough to deal with right now, without this shock." A slightly hysterical giggle escaped—terrible of her to be laughing at a time like this but it was impossible to control the quick mental picture of Mr. Carson's face once he heard the news. No one did thunderstruck indignation quick like him. Less humorous would be the disappointment on the housekeeper's, however.

"You're right," John said with a chuckle in his words. "My dear," he added as an afterthought and they grinned at each other.

The 'bus passed the Downton Village sign. "No more of this then," Anna said severely, tugging her hand loose from his.

"Our secret," he whispered in her ear before drawing back.

They barely made it back to the Abbey in time to change their charges for bed and parted in the corridor as the rest of the staff swirled around them. With the house under mourning, the family did not dress for dinner, but ate in the small dining room and retired early. It would have all seemed like yet another daydream to Anna if Lady Mary hadn't immediately asked for the details, and then offered the newlyweds the most precious gift possible for servants; privacy.

Anna had dashed down to the servants hall, sure her expression gave her away to every curious maid and footman that she passed.

John was at the servants hall table, trying to look nonchalant, but his head shot up as soon as she appeared in the doorway and she feared his beaming face would reveal their secret as well.

Thomas was pontificating to O'Brien about how he was taking up the slack for Mr. Carson. They both looked at Anna as though she was mad. How could she possibly signal Mr. Bates? She took the chair beside him, her legs too weak to continue standing.

Mrs. Hughes came bustling in, obviously preoccupied by her thoughts.

"How is Mr. Carson?" Anna quickly asked.

"He's wandering the corridors," interjected Thomas before the housekeeper could answer.

"What?" Mrs. Hughes said, exasperated.

"He was in his pantry giving me guff as I was locking up the silver."

"That man!" Mrs. Hughes spun on her heel and was gone.

Thomas smirked at O'Brien.

"I suppose I should be getting to bed," the lady's maid said, standing. "Coming, Anna?"

Bates shifted so that his leg pressed against hers. She briefly closed her eyes. He was trying to convey his own message-she had to give him very specific directions, but those two-

Then Thomas said the most wonderful thing ever: "Care for a last smoke, Miss O'Brien?"

Anna's shoulders sagged with relief as they left she and John alone.

"Damn," he grumbled. "I'd hoped that we could slip out for a kiss or two-"

She pinned him with an indignant glare. "On my wedding night, Mr. Bates? Nothing but a few kisses in the cold and dark?"

His face went blank as though not sure what was the right answer. She could see that she was going to enjoy being married, if it meant striking him dumb on a frequent basis.

She leaned close. "Lady Mary has arranged for us to have the Lord Byron room at the end of the women's wing. Get there after everyone's in bed," she ordered.

His reply was thick with need. "If I have to crawl there on my hands and knees."

"I'd rather you not," she said smartly.

"What are you two whispering about?" Mrs Patimore asked good-naturedly from the doorway and they shifted their chairs apart guiltily. "Get on to bed. I'm waiting for the last two cakes to come out of the oven and need Daisy to clean up this crockery-"

"I'll do it, Mrs. Patimore," said Anna, leaping up. "Anything to help you all get to bed. We have the funeral tomorrow, after all."

"Thank you," the cook said, surprised. After giving John a significant glance over her shoulder, Anna carried the teacups into the kitchen and began to ruthlessly clean anything which lay between her and paradise.

She'd not dared to dream that she and her new husband could have any sort of honeymoon and now that it was mere minutes away, she was frantic. Her palms were sweating even under the cold water and her limbs shaking. She practically screamed when Mrs. Hughes came up behind her and lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Anna, dear, are you well? You look flushed," the housekeeper said. Anna could hear the concern in her voice. Sickness was still in the village.

Wild-eyed, she looked at Mrs. Hughes. "I do feel a bit under the weather," she said breathlessly. "I should go up." She wiped her wet hands off with a tea towel.

Then Mrs. Hughes said the fateful words: "I'll look in on you in a bit-"

"No!" Anna clung to the doorjamb and tried to calm down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John easing down the corridor ahead of her to the staircase.

She started again. "I mean, I just need some sleep, I'm sure. I'll drop right off as soon as my head hits the pillow. Thank you ever so much for thinking of me though," she babbled, backing away.

Her opportunity to bring Mrs. Hughes into her confidence had passed. No one in the house but Lady Mary and Jane knew they were married. It was a precious secret that she was wanted to hold within the silver locket of her heart just for tonight.

At the landing where the two stairs diverted between the two sides of the servants' wing, she looked to the top of the men's stair. John stood at the open door, her Black Knight, his pale cheek caught in a shaft of lamplight. His dark eyes glowed down at her, the desire in his gaze making her sway. Whirling, she dashed up the stairs to the women's corridor. The sooner that she could get into her nightgown and robe, the sooner she could get to the waiting guest room and the sooner...

She didn't know what was next and this excited her nearly to swooning.

As she frantically struggled out of her evening uniform and hung it with shaking hands in her cupboard, she wondered if perhaps she should said something romantic in her command. Or even thrown in a naughty suggestion. When she replayed it, she'd sounded nagging, as if she were reminding him to empty the chamber pots in the morning.

She washed up, taking care with her most intimate areas. Tonight, someone would be seeing them, touching them, breathing on her skin...She gripped the edge of the water basin's stand to keep from falling. Perhaps she should have talked to Jane, learned some more specific details of what she was to expect beyond the salacious tidbits dropped by the likes of Ethel and other housemaids who'd shared their wanton adventures.

She understood the mechanics...She thought. But she somehow had to connect the feelings she experienced when Mr. Bates—no, John—touched her. For years now, they'd tortured themselves with kisses and caresses, too infrequent and rushed, always with one ear turned for the sounds of approaching footfall, Thomas' scornful voice, perhaps Mrs. Hughes' disapproving tone. But she knew this much; his big hand smoothing along her back, pressing her hip into the cradle of his thick thighs as they nestled together, all while his mouth eased hers open for his tongue's caress, promised just a beginning. This undefined desire would take some shape tonight.

Moving from shadow to shadow along the upper gallery, her ears pricked like a house mouse, she made her way to the guest room that Mary had set aside. When she slipped around the door, the room stood empty, but the candles still flickered and the fire burned cheerfully. Unsure, she perched on the edge of the bed, twisting her robe's cord in her twitching fingers.

There was a knock and she hurried to the door. When she cracked it, his well-known and yet suddenly unknown face was there. Her husband, come to lie with her. Clinging to the door, she could barely hold it open for him.

"Hello," he whispered and she was lost. Snaking her arm around his neck, she pulled his face down to hers, even before she brought him into the room.

He walked her backward as they kissed, desperate and heated. Fumbling, he closed the door. Yes, they must have privacy. She was yanking at his robe and nightshirt, her years of experience on undressing others gone with her frantic mood.

"Love," he cajoled, holding her hands away and she realized that he was much stronger than her. His large fingers spanned her fine wrists and as he loomed over her, his bulk blocked light.

"We should talk about this," he said sternly.

Tipping her head like an inquisitive bird, she gazed up at him. "Talk? About what?" Wrestling loose, she tugged at his robe's cord and he covered the knot to keep it from coming loose.

"I don't want you to think that you must do anything that you're not ready for," he explained, "if this were a true honeymoon, we would go away and I would have days to…" He blushed; he actually blushed. With a gulp, he stumbled on. "To introduce you to the ways of—" Waving his hand aimlessly toward the bed, his words petered out.

Her eyes narrowed. "We don't have days. We have tonight."

Taking a deep breath, he raised his chin, resolute. "Exactly—"

Before he could continue to embarrass himself, she stepped closer, forcing him to take her in his arms. "So we'll just have to muddle along, shall we? I'm a quick learner; just ask Mrs. Hughes," she said.

"I'd rather not," he said, strangled sounding.

"Take my word for it then." She wrapped her arms around his waist and holding him much tighter than he was holding her.

He cupped her cheek, tears glistening on his dark eyelashes. "I don't want to hurt you," he murmured.

Now she was getting angry. Didn't he believe that she was brave enough to handle whatever was coming her way? But something told her that scolding or berating him wouldn't be the right course at this time. As much as she loathed to use feminine wiles…She forced a few tears into her own eyes, let them be from frustration, and made the words catch in her throat: "You…You don't want me?"

As she was lifted off the ground in his strong arms, his mouth onto herself again, she allowed herself a moment of satisfaction; that was easier than she expected.

And then he gasped against her lips: "I need to slow down-"

"Why?" Even she could hear the whine in her voice.

He blinked at her and she smiled at the sight of his brain trying to find an answer.

Bringing her hand to his mouth to kiss the knuckles, he asked: "How much...It doesn't matter to me, my love, but I don't want to frighten you-"

She was not frightened; she was suddenly indignant.

"You, only you. Surely you can tell."

He focused on their twined hands even as she tried to tug her fingers free. "I'm not accustomed to this sort of eagerness," he said quietly. "At least not in many years."

"You," she repeated. She was back in his arms, drawing his mouth back down to hers, giving his lips and tongue the familiar caresses that he had taught her. When they finally gasped for air, she told him, "I know you will keep me safe-never hurt me."

He cradled her face as he kissed her. She loved when he did this, his huge hands could nearly envelop her entire head, and the sense of possession by this man made her feel light as a soap bubble and nearly as fragile. Her breath caught and her vision shimmered behind her fluttering eyelids. But it was he who fell to the bed first, catching himself to sit on the edge and gaze up at her.

This was good; they were on the same level and it made his tall form easier for her to manage. "Let's have a look then," she said briskly, tugging at his robe and nightshirt. Giving her a slow grin, he shed the robe, then after a moment of hesitation, pulled the shirt off, but bunched it in his lap.

Frustration was quickly replaced by curiosity. She laid her hands on his chest, threading through the thick hair revealed. "Oh my," she said, not quite sure what she thought of this. It was so different from her own smooth body and certainly unexpected. He was always so neat and tidy without a hair on his head out of place, and this gave him a wild element—and it made her weak in the knees.

He chuckled, uncertain. "Not scaring you?"

She raised her chin. "No."

His smile was back, twitching on his lips. His hands were loosely resting on her hips. He plucked at her own night clothes with just his fingertips; an unspoken request.

Suddenly shy and inquisitive at the same second, she dropped to her knees. "May I see first?" she asked breathlessly, stalling.

He clutched at his nightshirt on his lap like a schoolgirl. "What?" he husked.

"Your leg," she said and his laugh was ragged and relieved.

He stroked her bowed head, working free the ribbon at the bottom of her braid so that her hair came loose. "Silly girl," he said affectionately.

All the while, she traced the scars along his knee and thigh. Dark hair covered his leg as well and the sudden image of how that would feel, entwined with her own smooth limbs, washed over her. All the different emotions—compassion, desire, uncertainty, frustration—made her head swim. She propped her cheek on his good leg and continued to caress his knee, feeling the looseness of the joint, the tightness of the tendons holding it askew. "My dear, strong man," she murmured.

He was breathing as though running miles. "Anna...Please…"

She gazed up at him, surprised at the anguish in his voice. His eyes were darker than she'd never seen them. She wasn't sure what she was doing wrong, but she knew it was something. Scrambling to her feet, she stepped back, her hands clasped at her waist. He released a deep breath.

Then she remembered that he'd wanted her to undress. Quickly, she removed her robe and then slipped her nightgown over her head before she lost her nerve. She dared to look at him because it was too embarrassing to look at her own nakedness—just as God had deemed. John was staring, his mouth slightly ajar, his hands bunching the gown still in his lap. She wasn't sure if this was good or not.

"Mr—John…"

Without a word, he opened his legs to make space and gathered her to him. Grateful, she sagged against him, running her hands down his broad back, as smooth as his chest was rough. His lips traversed her neck under the curtain of her hair and she found herself gasping at the sensation. He'd kissed her there before, but perhaps it was everything together which made it more intense—the brush of his hair on her bare breasts, the press his naked thighs against her own quaking legs, and most of all, his wide hands stroking down her back to find her chilled hips and bottom, warming them instantly with his touch.

Then his fingers captured one of her breasts and the uncertainty returned as new sensations flooded her senses. Nestling her head in the crook of his neck, she watched as he palmed the weight and his thumb circled her nipple.

"You are simply the most beautiful creature on earth," he whispered and she couldn't stop the snort of laughter.

"Silly beggar," she murmured back—after all, she was nothing more than a Yorkshire country girl.

As if to counter her derision, his head dipped and his mouth replaced his hand. This feeling was even more overwhelming. She didn't know what she thought—after all, this is what babies did. But the pull of his lips seemed to be thrumming every nerve in her body and starting a pulse between her legs, which made no sense at all. Once again, she wished that she'd spoken to some more experienced woman.

"I want to give you all the pleasure that I can tonight—"

"Of course you will," she insisted.

He only smiled sadly and she knew that she still had a battle ahead.

"What's next?" she asked, trying to regain control of her overwhelmed senses. "We should lie down?" she suggested without giving him a chance to answer.

"That would be nice," he said, awkward. He scooted back on the bed, leaving space for her.

She started to flip back the cover, but noticed he was still on top. Crawling onto the bed, she managed to grab his nightshirt off his hips before he could snatch it back. Tossing it over her shoulder, she finally got a good look at what lay ahead for her.

"Oh," she said. That certainly didn't look like anything she'd seen on the few statutes that did not wear fig leaves! She wasn't sure what that said about the ancient Greeks or about her Gaelic husband.

He fell back on the pillows, covering his embarrassment with a laugh. "Oh?" he challenged her.

"It's just unexpected, that's all," she said stiffly, lying beside him and tucking her hand under her head. She couldn't stop glancing down. "May I touch you?"

"You don't have to ask."

"I think I should. You ask before touching me." She dared him to say something about her lack of experience.

His was the smile of a shy boy, but his eyes twinkled like a rogue. "Touch away." He lolled back, arms outstretched.

She snuggled up to him, still feeling uncomfortable at their naked state. This bedroom was lovely, but hardly the Garden of Eden and its blessed ignorance. He put his arm around her shoulders, but only traced a light line up and down her arm, waiting for her to make the next move.

Tentatively, she lay her palm on the rise of his belly. The dark pelt thinned there, but laid a trail downward to a thicker tangle of hair and this utterly fascinating appendage. It appeared to be taking on a life of its own and a thousand questions leapt to her mind, none of which seemed appropriate for a maiden bride to ask.

His breathing hitched when she finally found the courage to run a fingertip along its length.

He gasped: "I will wait as long as you need—"

"I need to be your wife, in every way." Her palm stroked up the underside and she smiled with delight at his reaction—writhing and clutching at the bedding, his mouth latching onto her shoulder and his hand finding her breast again.

"I need to say that I am truly your wife if questioned," she reminded him, bringing the horrible uncertainty looming over them into this enclave. That wasn't romantic at all; sometimes she just couldn't help her practical nature. She hated to be manipulative, but it appeared that John's resistance was strong. She made her lower lip tremble. "You speak of pain. It hurts me that you don't want me enough…"

He was on her so quickly she gave a squeak before his mouth covered hers, muffling her cries. Hands gripped her body, leaving a trail of gooseflesh, then to have her skin catch fire. His seeking lips on her breasts again, and his fingers slid between her legs. At first she was afraid that she'd done something embarrassing when she could hear the wet sounds to his caresses, but his groan was of pleasure.

She gasped out in surprise when one finger slid inside her. John stilled, his lips lingering her throat's pulse. Turning his head, he rasped in her ear, "Breathe out."

Yes, she must breathe. Exhaling until her head went light, she nodded. His hand began to move again, gentle but persistent.

"Breathe in," he murmured, his lips taking a meandering path from her sensitive collarbone to her belly. She saw that he was training her body for the final completion, just as he taught her to kiss and enjoy his caresses. Gripping his arm, she ran her own shaking hands up and down it, encouraging him, joining into the rhythm.

"Just like that," he said, his tone clipped with control before he added a second finger. Again the gasp, again she couldn't stop the reflective clamping down, but this time, she found her own breathing pattern, deep from her lungs, rising into his lapping tongue on her nipples. Flinging her leg over his hip, she pulled their bodies flush, finding her body moving instinctively, following the need to push her body into his.

His own breath caught. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he repeated, "I don't want to hurt you."

Her furious gaze was her only reply and at least he had the grace to laugh. "Yes, my love, I will obey," he whispered against her set mouth.

Withdrawing his touch, he lifted her leg higher to tuck behind his flank. His pelvis flexed slowly forward and then she understood his concern in a searing moment. Tears sprung to her eyes and she fought to find her breathing again. But she still clung to his shoulders, daring him to try and retreat.

Instead, he kissed her gently, prodding her lips with his tongue. Yes, kissing she knew. She opened her mouth, welcoming that familiar invasion, trying to ignore the burn. She was filled to the point that blood rushed in her ears. There was a moment of panic as it all felt too much, then she breathed out again and spread her legs wider. She was still not comfortable, but she was rearranging her thoughts—this was marriage—making room in her heart and body. Now the two much fit together as one.

In time with his tongue caressing hers, he began to move his hips again, supporting her leg with his wide hand. That seemed to make the pain lessen and she gave a gasp of encouragement. His palm cradled her bottom, rocking her with his movement—she was reminded just how large he was in comparison to her. She was the kitten, trying to surmount a bear. This thought made her giggle and that gave levity to the situation, for he buried his face in the crook of her neck and gasped, "Yes, this is all rather silly isn't it?"

"Not in the least," she pronounced, splaying her hand across his broad back, pushing him on. He pulsed into her, controlled and gentle and her outrage was back. He thought she was fragile and weak—

Rolling onto her back, she pulled him over and he rose above her on shaking arms.

Stroking his hair off his sweaty brow, she urged him, "Show me, John. Show me—" She didn't even know what she was asking of him, but the relief on his face meant she'd said the right thing.

His gaze locked with hers, his thrusts became deeper and she willed her expression not to show her pain. But then she was captivated in the beauty of his face, how his eyes lit to caramel flames, his mouth quivering with nonsensical words. This blissful expression-no one would ever see it again but her.

"I can't—" he gasped clearly.

"Don't," she urged him. "Do—" again, with no idea what she was asking of him. It was as though she were fumbling in the dark, her outstretched hands seeking familiar surfaces. His love, this she did know. Reaching up, she traced his straining features. It was there—

"My Anna," he gasped. "Mine—" was the sweetest word that he ever spoke to her. One more series of thrusts, deeper still until she had to bite her lip at the agony. "Love, always…" flowed into her hair as he buried his face beside her, his mass settling on her as his limbs when limp. She cooed comfort in his ear although she could barely breath for his weight.

"Let me," he mumbled. He rolled off and gathered her close. Fumbling for the bedside table, he snagged a small towel that was folded there. She blushed; Jane must have known it would be needed. He carefully wiped between her legs and then his own flesh before putting it aside.

"How are you?" was his first question, of course.

"Happy," she promised him, kissing his cheek as though he were her brother. He chuffed, a dissatisfied sound and she started to giggle at his sudden moodiness.

Then his touch was back. Instead of penetration again though, he rolled his fingers between her legs, causing a renewed flood of moisture. His kisses mimicked the pattern, suckling her lips, the point of her shoulder, her breasts. A new sensation began to course through her bloodstream, making her brow furrow with confusion.

"Have you ever—" he rasped.

"What?" she asked even as she clutched at the bedding, her hips rising to his touch.

"I think you can," he said with wonder before plundering her mouth again. Her blood pounding in her head, her limbs, at the center of his touch, she felt swollen to the point of bursting. She had to break the kiss to fight for breath. She no longer could control her writhing limbs, only knew that she had to follow where he was leading her.

"So beautiful," he murmured again, tears in his voice. "I want to give you—"

"No...Yes..." She had to be free from the frenzy of this undefined need and yet she wanted it to continue forever. "John!" she pleaded and he turned his knuckles to her flesh, pushing her to some place that she'd never been. With a half-shout that had made her immediately clasp her hand over her mouth, her vision had gone momentarily black then white before there was the sense of falling, back into the soft bed, into his lessening touch, into her own mortal body.

Anna felt nothing now, even as she twisted the fine thread around her fingers until it bit into her flesh. She put down Lady Mary's gown before her sweaty hands stained the delicate pale silk. She would never feel that way again; she knew that now and bile rose in her throat. She must keep this story close then, for it was all she had.

"That's better," John had said with great satisfaction and Anna suspected he would be insufferable now that he knew he had such a power over her, but truly, if he had that key, she wasn't going to deny him anything. Every nerve still tingled; she wanted to feel that again...And again. But at least she could think once more.

Her curiosity was back. "What was that?" she asked.

He chuckled. "That is now my reason for living. To give you pleasure as often as I can." He kissed the corner of her mouth sweetly. "And it will get only better," he promised with that dark smoke voice of his and the blindness returned for a brief moment.

Humming worriedly, she chewed on her lower lip. That feeling had been almost too powerful; she was close to losing control. What would utter loss be like? She shivered. That must be why girls like Ethel threw everything away over a man—

"Of course you're cold. Let's get you under the covers," he said, not noticing her dismay. Struggling with the satin bedding, they finally both got under the sheets, rolling to face each other.

Now they just touched each other lightly, the wonder of this night renewed. They were man and wife. They would share a bed. They had each other's body as their own.

He smiled wickedly. "Well, Mrs Bates. You've had your way with me," he said with grace, giving her credit for a job well done. Good humor back, she could only giggle. Perhaps he hadn't fooled by her earlier manipulations.

His smile faded. "I just hope you don't live to regret it."

"I couldn't regret it, no matter what comes. I know only that I am now who I was meant to be." Indeed, she was a new woman. Not just that she was no longer a virgin, but that this experience had opened a whole other door, to some place that she'd never known was possible within her. John had seen, she supposed. She'd brashly offered to be his mistress, not even really understanding what that meant. Yes, it was this possession, but being his wife did make it mean so much more. He'd known; he'd wanted _that_ woman, not a shameful creature to be mocked in the street.

But it was just for this one night...He kissed her again, his hands slow on her bare back, lightly touching her hair. She knew sleep was near, but still they continued to caress each other before being overcome.

In the dawn, he woke her with kisses along her spine. Movement was painful at first, and then desire—this new, amazing thing—made her limbs loose and twining, wrapping around his neck and waist. His touch was both soothing of her sore muscles, and awoke those new nerve-endings that she'd never realized created such ecstasy. It only took a few strokes of his fingers, sliding deep and purposefully, to ready her.

"My wife," he said with that wonder she was coming to enjoy. "My passionate wife."

When she began to gasp with this newly discovered need, he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him. "My leg can't take the strain," he said, a twinkle in his eyes as he easily lifted her up and onto him. He supported her hips so that she did not seat fully on him quite yet and he could guide her movement. Her hair fell forward as a veil and she swept it back. He gasped at the sight of her rising above him, back arched in the morning light leaking through the curtains.

"You are so beautiful," he said yet again, but this time she smiled. He made her this way.

"And you are so very handsome," she promised him and it was his turn to snort in derision. Above him thusly, she could smooth her hands along his ribs until his breath hitched, circle his own curiously flat nipples, trace his stubbled jaw until his sucked her fingers into his mouth.

"Let me show you—if I'm taken away…" He took her wet fingers and brought their hands together to where their bodies joined. Even as he began to rub her as he had done before, she pulled her hand away.

"No, John, I won't…Not without you—"

"I want to know that you have pleasure—"

"Not without you," she insisted again.

"Silly girl," he said, a catch in his voice. "My joy would be thinking of you like this, my name on your lips—" His delicate touch continued to caress her above his surging hips. "To see your face behind my eyelids, just as you are now—"

"John," she gasped on cue, feeling the shimmer flowing through her limbs again. "John..."

"My love...Our love..." he promised and the morning light broke through curtains, blinding them both in a flash.

Later, when they were finally able to have a proper married life, in the ladies' circle at church, there'd been a very red-faced discussion about the proper manner for marital relations. Anna was shocked to find that the church looked very severely at anything but the husband atop his wife. She somehow felt that Mr. Bates had led her astray, and immediately brought up her concerns when they returned to their cottage for Sunday luncheon.

"We enjoy it; what does it matter?" he pointed out with a shake of his head. "It's not as though you're going to tell Reverend Travis, right?" He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Of course not," she hissed, even though they were alone at their table. "But God can see!"

"He hasn't struck us down with a lightning bolt yet," John said dryly. "Besides, I have a medical dispensation." That intoxicating glint was was back in his gaze and she was certain than that she did not believe him.

Pursing her mouth, she started to protest again.

He dismissed her fretting with an infuriating wave of his hand. "I find no shame in it. If a man needs to rut on a woman like some animal to feel that he's a proper husband, that's his business. I want to give you pleasure—that position gives you greater pleasure, doesn't it?" He cocked his head to meet her downcast eyes.

"You know it does," she grumbled, a bit unfriendly.

He had snared her hand off the table and unfurled her fist to kiss the palm. "That is God's plan. Not domination of a woman."

The fine thread finally snapped in Anna's grasp as she yanked the needle through the gown's hem. Perhaps that had been it. John has his own view of God; what if He had struck them down? She knew that her husband didn't believe in such things, but that left her to safeguard their souls. What if _It_ wasn't not a beast of the devil, but a vengeful angel sent to punish her for her wanton ways? Surely the Lord would not hurt her in such a way—but look how He dealt with other prideful souls…And she had taken such pride in their secret world of love and passion...

She put aside her sewing. She was trying to find order in the disorder of her life, but the answers that she found gave her no relief.

* * *

After their one night and her husband on the dock for his life, when her bleeding had started, Anna could barely make it to Mrs. Hughes' sitting room before she broke down sobbing. "If I've ever prayed for anything…Even more than he be spared…If I only I could have had his child. I would be his for the rest of my life." And every monthly time since that had meant a moment of pain to her throat, the tears close.

Today, at the sight of blood against white cotton, Anna's relief was so great that she nearly lost consciousness right in the dim, fetid privy. She could barely walk back to the Abbey, but sought the housekeeper's company again. This time it was she who supported a crying woman.

She would live.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes had had the pleasure of Mr. Bates' company in her sitting room only a few times, but they'd been short encounters and mostly connected to their duties. The most intimate discussion had been when she'd taken him to task for that dangerous limp corrector, but in all other times, he'd been all that correct and polite. She and Mr. Carson had been invited to the Bates' cottage on several occasions, both together and separately, and she'd enjoyed these visits greatly. Anna was a delightful hostess, and away from the Abbey, the company could be comfortable and frank. But John Bates had allowed his wife to take the lead with obvious relief, preferring to sit back and watch her bustle around their home, his proud gaze watching her.

This man seated in her room now was quite different. For some reason, she'd never noticed how large he was before; perhaps years with Mr. Carson looming over her head had made her immune. At this moment however, Mr. Bates was a force, barely controlled energy radiating from him, even as his low voice remained smooth and controlled, explaining that he would have his answers, or else. His massive hands remained lax, but she could see the power in the long flexing fingers. Keeping her feet tucked below her skirts, she held her legs still to stop the shaking.

Now she understood why Anna had felt that she must flee her husband and home. Not out of fear of any violence toward her, but that this will was iron-forged and would not bend until he had what he wanted. When he had heard the word _attack _and she saw the weight settle on his broad shoulders, first he shuddered, then he straightened, taking the burden. But Mrs. Hughes knew Anna too well. The girl would not want to give up her mantle. She'd carried it for too long, whether it was Mr. Bates' resistance to her love, then his imprisonment—she simply did not know how to lift it from her back and let another take the load. Mrs. Hughes remembered why she'd chosen not to marry; she was not one to share either.

He raised his hand to shield his face, as though blocking a flare of light and Mrs. Hughes caught her breath. Relief sufficed her. It seemed that he accepted her assurances that the attacker had not been Mr. Green.

And then of all things, he laughed but it was a frightening, rattling sound.

"What I'd thought it was—Heard you say baby to Anna-"'

Mrs. Hughes winced. This uncomfortable interview just became more painful.

"She wasn't feeling well…Then she'd fainted—" The rusty laugh was back. "Blood all over her dress—"

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Bates," she said helplessly.

"That's why I gave her time, didn't push." He chewed out, "It killed me that she wouldn't tell me what happened, but I know her. She won't accept any failures, you see, and would see such a loss as her failure—"

Mrs. Hughes furrowed her brow, trying to understand.

"When its my failure. Married for years before. No babies. I…I thought this was the last straw. The one thing she wants, and I cannot give it to her." His words came in gasps now. "Toss me out."

All she could do was repeat, "I'm so sorry—"

"Instead, it's_ this_. Stupid. Blind." He pressed his fist to his forehead. "I just could never imagine here—In the Abbey."

"Mr. Bates, all I can ask is that now you give her what she needs desperately. Your understanding and support."

His gaze shot up. "Of course. It was never a question."

She released a relieved breath. "It's sometimes is a question in these situations."

His eyes became black, frightening her. "She is truth itself. No, there was evil at work here." When he rose from his chair, his black bulk blocked the gaslight, plunging Mrs. Hughes' vision into darkness.

* * *

Anna thought she would finally cry when John took her in his arms and swore his fidelity. But she could only gasp at the stale air and feel the ache in her parched throat. Apparently no tears could fall; she'd forgotten how.

She hadn't recognize the beast's name when John said it. Easy to deny that it was him, because her attacker was just _It_ to her now. Her secret was safe and so was John Bates.

"Come home, Anna. Please."

She was home already, back in his arms but she still protested: "It's so late. I cannot." She was exhausted.

"Please, Anna," he moaned like the wind's broken notes.

She knew he was afraid that if she didn't follow him now, she would retreat again. "I will come home, tomorrow," she swore. Her shaking hand to her brow. "Now, I must sleep. I haven't been sleeping—"

He captured her fingers and cradled her quivering jaw. "Of course you haven't."

"But I'm so very tired now."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, I'll come home tomorrow."

"Come home, my love. Please come home. Everything will be all right if you're there." The ache in his words gave voice to the pain that pressed tears to her eyelids, threatening to finally spill them over.

She knew it wasn't true, nothing would ever be right again, but she was weak. She had to have him. Once, it meant she was strong when she claimed her man. Now that claim meant she couldn't protect him; couldn't save him, but damn her, she had to have him.

~ end Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3: A Woman There Was

_Part 3: A Woman There Was_

_Spoilers: 4.6-7_

_Warnings: Season 4 Anna/Bates canon fic, thus occasional disturbing references. Also graphic consensual sexual situations._

_Summary: Her steps were labored but forward._

* * *

Anna wandered around their cottage, tracing every piece of furniture with her fingertips. The late afternoon sun lit the drifting dust particles, creating a golden snowstorm.

"I didn't keep things up to your standards?" John asked as he hung up his coat and hat by the entry. She could tell that he was trying for levity but still sounded wary. She'd wounded him on purpose and this was her price.

"It's so precious, that's all," she murmured.

"Let's have tea," he said, his relief heavy, before moving to the kitchen.

Once they were at their table, hands wrapped around teacups, Anna felt as though she needed to say a few things. "I know that I've hurt you-"

He shied away as if struck. "How can you say that I've been hurt, when you-"

"Let's not talk about it," she said abruptly. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, that's all. I should have had more faith in you." She knew there was no sincerity in her words.

He tilted his cup to see the leaves snared on the bottom, perhaps seeking his fortune. "There's nothing to apologize for. I've been thinking—"

No words made a married person's heart sink faster than _I've been thinking_. Anna felt that now familiar detachment overcome her. Numb, she waited for him to continue.

"When we first met, you knew my heart straight off, more than I could. You pulled me along—I didn't believe I could be happy, that I could be free, and you showed me the way. When I went to prison, I lost hope again. That was the man I was meant to be—"

His echo of her phrase made her wince but she remained rooted to her chair.

"And once more, you knew me. That I was an innocent man who should be free. Could love a woman and give her a good home." He glanced around the cottage as if seeing it for the first time. "Even if my painting skills left something to be desired."

She tried to laugh and just managed a gasp.

"So if you knew I wasn't strong enough to carry this burden for you, I must accept that. You know my heart better than I know it myself." He gulped his cold tea, leaves and all.

She couldn't speak. Her eyes burned as though she hadn't slept in days and she supposed that she hadn't. The sun sank lower, exploding the window with light, blinding her in the moment, and she welcomed the white sheet that seemed to fall over her vision like a shroud.

Finally, a single word escaped. "No." That was all she could manage and she hoped it was enough.

* * *

"I'll sleep in the other room," said John, lingering at their bedroom door.

Anna had rushed upstairs as soon as it was reasonable. She yearned for their bed, her pillow, his scent around her, all that had been kept from her for the past few weeks. She blinked at him over the covers pulled up to her chin.

"The other room?" It was a catchall space for now, the unspoken nursery.

"I've set up a cot."

"Why?"

"I thought-" He shifted on his bad leg.

"I need you, John." He still looked uncomfortable; she should have called him Mr. Bates. But he finally approached the bed and removed his robe. She noticed that he'd chosen one of his lordship's hand-me-down pairs of pajamas rather than a nightshirt. She wouldn't feel the gentle rasp of his bare, long legs twining with hers.

The mattress dipped with his weight. She immediately shifted to cinch her arm around his broad chest and bury her face under his chin. He carefully settled his own arm under her neck.

She breathed deep, needing to fill her swirling head with him again; his scent, the sound of his heartbeat under her ear, the taste of the day's salt on his skin. As her tongue lightly stroked the cords of his neck, his hand capped her shoulder and gave a squeeze.

"Anna-Don't think I would ask anything of you."

"Of course not." He never had to ask; she always gave freely.

"In the war...I saw women. Who'd been hurt. It's not something I've forgotten."

She curled away from him. She'd hidden her wounds from him to no avail. When he looked at her, he'd see her as some piece of refuse tossed aside by some other man after a violent and greedy act.

"Anna," he whispered.

"I only want to hold you," she said. "I've missed you."

She'd missed herself. At some point, they had become each other, never bored with conversation, could finish the other's thoughts, knew when to speak or to hold silence. That was torn and left fluttering the wind but she wanted it whole again.

"I've missed you too," were his tear-filled words and his fingers tightened on her arm.

"Then don't talk. Just hold me."

He pulled her close. Perhaps those other women had cowered from strange men coming across their mangled bodies and spirits, but she knew where salvation lay and it was in his arms. It always had been. Beyond their minds, this was her body too. She needed it to be a complete person once more. As a castaway would cling to a raft, she held onto him. The planes of his chest, the spice of his smell, the pattern of his touch along her back, this was all she needed to move past what had happened.

John leaned over her and blew out the bedside candle. The darkness made her shudder and his hold tightened. If only she could dissolve into his skin, she thought as she clasped him with all her strength.

* * *

It was bath night. Together, they filled the hip bathtub before the kitchen stove. As always, John told her, "You first."

She removed her robe. He suddenly found things to do on the bench, sorting the tins that lined the back. Plucking at her gown, she couldn't pull it over her head. As she had every time that she bathed after that night, she climbed into the tub with it still on. She'd only be unclothed as quickly as possible while changing, her back to the wall and her frantic gaze trained on the locked door.

The nightgown was buttoned high under her chin and billowed around her on the warm water. John glanced over his shoulder and started to exclaim before pinching his lips together. Carefully, she washed under the gown, keeping it secure with one hand while the other moved quickly with a flannel.

Often John would offer to help, more as a part of their play than any practical assistance. Instead, he put the tea kettle on, and got down her favorite cup and saucer, allowing her to finish. Before she could ask, he went to the basket with the day's washing off the line and fetched a dry gown and undergarments, fresh-smelling of sunlight and rose blooms.

"Give me that," he said quietly and after a moment, she stood, stepped out of the tub and pulled the drenched nightgown off. He enveloped her in a towel and began to rub her dry.

She stared at the dim entry across the room. Had he locked the door? Shot the bolt? Her limbs quaked and there was a twitch on her cheek. Her breathing quickened.

"Yes, my darling," he replied even though she hadn't spoken aloud. He tossed aside the towel and slipping the dry nightgown over her head. Then he pulled her robe off the chair. She put it on with shaking hands, cinching the cord tight before buttoning her gown high and wrapping the collar over it, snug against her chin.

"I'm sorry," she said for what felt like the thousandth time since returning to the cottage.

He started to protest but stopped himself. Instead, he removed his own clothes and stepped into the tub. As she always did, she added boiling water from a large kettle but did it by his feet with none of her usual teasing trickle of water closer to his lap. Keeping his gaze trained on his raised knees, he soaped the flannel and began to methodically wash.

She sipped her tea before it became too cold, watching him. Placing the cup back on the saucer, she took the flannel from him. "Let me," she murmured. His broad, smooth back beckoned her.

He tipped his head forward, giving her access.

She must reward John for his patience, even if she had no want for relations. Using the memories to keep darker flashbacks at bay was one thing, but the very thought of her body being breached again...But she must do it for him soon; it was part of their normal life; an existence without their intimacy was not their life at all.

She replaced the soapy cloth with her lips and heard his breathing hitch.

"Anna...It's not time."

"What do you know?" she challenged him. After all, she'd nearly had to drag him to bed on their wedding night. His reluctance was old hat by now.

"I know my wife."

This filled her with fury; he was not completing her thought as before. She wanted to strike out, but only had the strength to take up the flannel again and begin to wash his arms. Kneeling beside the tub and balanced up on her toes as if to take flight at the slightest danger, she soaked the cloth before sweeping it across his chest, saturating the thick hair there. Her hand swept lower, across his belly and below the water. She could give him that pleasure while remaining as she was. A relief passed through her limbs.

She stroked him, watching from under her lashes as he leaned back in the tub, his breath quickening, moving into her touch. His hand suddenly grabbed her wrist with, "No, Anna," sharp in the silent room.

Rasping an animal noise, she began to struggle and he instantly released her. She stood.

"I'm sorry, Anna." He hid his face in his hands.

She gazed down at his bowed head. Yes, he'd hurt her. He should apologize.

"I suppose that I'll go on up to bed," she said, listless.

"Church tomorrow morning," John reminded her.

She had not seen him at services while she was away. But he would go with her. "Yes," she said.

He began to wash the soap off, cupping water in his hands. Usually she did that for him. She sank to a chair to wait for him to finish. She couldn't face the dark bedroom alone.

Silence echoed in their cottage, putting her on edge. If they'd had children, this pain would be less, she was sure. Their home would be loud and clattering and Anna would not have time to remember and John would not have the energy to brood. Instead, she was his mother and precious daughter, he was father and blessed son. They were entwined, one needing to breathe out for the other to inhale. He always filled her to the point of delicious pain but a smaller man, a slim snake in their garden, was there now, his scales a sinister whisper as he moved in the high grass. They would never again just be two.

John rose from the tub and the water slid down his long limbs in sheets. She came to help him, towel in hand. But he took it from her, his smile guarded. "I've got it," he said.

Stepping back, she clasped her hands at her waist. Somehow, she's wasted away to the point that she could slip through the fissure in their glass globe and now stood outside, watching her husband within.

* * *

Day after careful day, Anna put one foot in front of the other with a bit more confidence that she would not stumble. When she was near John, she didn't have to hide in her stories. She must watch him carefully, fearful for every indication that he was thinking his own dark tales. When they were alone, he held her gently while she gripped him so tightly that her fingers cramped.

The first time that he kissed her, she had to step away. She had always closed her eyes when they kissed, but now the beast was in the darkness. So she tried to keep her eyes open and sensing her watching him, he pulled back, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Cupping his jaw, she promised, "It's alright. It'll be alright."

His reply was to bury his face in her crook of her neck, rocking her in his strong arms.

Anna couldn't lie when Lady Mary queried about her return to the cottage. "Have things sorted themselves out?" her mistress asked one morning.

"Not quite." After her first attempt, Anna could not possibly initiate marital relations and John did not give one of his familiar signals that he wanted her—why would he want her?

She added, "But it's better." Selfish, she had to continue to hurt John just to remain sane. That's what passed for better now.

Her ladyship sipped her tea. "You're obviously not going to tell me what it was about but I'm glad if it's resolved."

In Lady Mary's tone, Anna could tell that she was disappointing another person. She went to plug in the curling iron for hairdressing, shielding her own pain with her turned back.

* * *

Even as they stumbled awkwardly through their meal at the Netherbee, Anna was determined to push herself into her proper role as wife. This situation had gone on long enough, and was ridiculous. He rose before her now, instead of waking in each other's arms, so as not to frighten her with his morning arousal. Even as she desperately clung to him, there was a distance between their bodies that was never there since they'd wed, like a breath of poisoned air holding them apart.

They dressed for bed. John continued to bring up the insults of the hotel manager; something that was very unlike him.

"I can't even assure that you get a table for dinner," he finally growled.

"Mr. Bates," she said with exasperation and his gaze softened.

"I'll leave it then," he said gently. His gaze traveled over her when she removed her robe. "That's a pretty nightgown." His voice had deepened to the aged honey sound that always sent a shiver up her spine.

"It's old," she chided. But she understood. She'd only worn gowns that buttoned all the way to the top of the neck since she'd returned. This was one from the back of the drawer, with a scooped neck gathered by a satin drawstring. He would loosen the tie and slip the top from the bounds of her shoulders, revealing her bare breasts to his mouth and hands—

Clenching her jaw, she climbed into bed. He followed, lifting his arm so that she could cuddle close.

"John, I want you very much," she whispered. It was true.

His breath quickened. Cupping her face, he kissed her fluttering eyelids, her cheeks, and finally her lips, just a stroke of his own before lying back on his pillow. "Want doesn't even capture what I feel," he croaked.

"I know, dearest. And I'm so very sorry—"

"Anna," he warned.

"Yes, let's forget it all for this evening," she insisted and tugged at his pajama bottoms.

He mistook her frantic touch for eagerness and groaned, "God, yes. Let's just remember the good times—"

He slid her gown up, his fingertips skittering over her stomach, making it flutter. Remembering his coaching on their wedding night, she forced her breathing to slow. When he captured her earlobe in his teeth, she nearly screamed. Another deep breath—

His hand slipped under the waistband of her drawers. No matter how hard she tried to slow her breathing, she could not keep her thighs from clamping tightly together, broaching no entry for him. His touch stilled and he shifted back.

"It's too soon." He sounded defeated.

"It's been weeks," she insisted.

"Anna, it will take as long as it takes."

His infinite patience angered her. She turned her back on him and blew out the bedside candle.

He shifted away as far as he could in the bed. The creak of the springs used to mean something else entirely—their bodies moving together, their gasps and groans in time with the bed's emissions. She frantically clung to those pictures, for others were coming like a great dark wave. The table where she was pinned down screaming as loud as she was; filthy, horrid curses, many words she didn't even know their meaning, but only that they injured, raining down like blows—

She must have cried out. John reached for her and at first she struck blindly, then the smell of her terror was washed over by his scent and she knew that she was safe again, at least until sleep took her and the nightmares came.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes spotted Anna passing her sitting room and called her in. Bustling around to sit at her desk, she folded her hands in her lap.

Anna sat as well, giving a little sigh of relief to take the weight off her feet. "What can I help you with, Mrs. Hughes?"

The housekeeper liked the brighter note in Anna's voice. The younger woman had always enjoyed assisting her and Mrs. Hughes hoped this opportunity would cheer Anna up.

She started in. "I must confess that I may be getting too old for all this—"

Anna raised her eyebrows. "You? Don't say it."

Mrs. Hughes pursed her lips. "When I'm trying to deal with these maids, I feel downright ancient."

Cocking her head, Anna asked: "There's a problem?"

"Not with their work. Or at least not directly. It's their love lives, I fear."

"Oh dear," said Anna, a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Hughes's heart soared at the first sign of humor from her in a very long time.

"Perhaps because Alfred's gone, Jimmy felt he could be too bold with Ivy. I think because of his forward manner, now she's regretting tossing sweet Alfred over, which is upsetting Daisy-"

With a shake of her head, Anna agreed, "This is a right mess."

"Indeed," Mrs. Hughes said, sighing deeply. "Ivy was terribly shocked, which makes it all twice as aggravating—"

"She was shocked? After the way that she flirted and led Jimmy on?" said Anna. "What did she expect to happen?"

Mrs. Hughes opened her mouth, but then didn't reply. The silence stretched out, and the clock's ticking became the only sound. Finally Anna said, "Do you remember Lucy Madsen?"

"Not likely to forget that girl," Mrs. Hughes said, her voice strained.

"The mess we found her in—"

"Anna, you shouldn't think about such things," urged Mrs. Hughes.

Unheeding, Anna went on. "That we decided that his lordship would be devastated to discover that his best friend from university could treat women in that way, even a servant girl. You sent her away so that she wouldn't have to face Sir Colin again when he visited. And warned all of us girls to stay away from him—would only send a footman to serve him or even make his bed."

"I did what I could."

"Yes." Anna stared across the room but her gaze was unseeing. "I don't want to ruin Lady Mary's chances. If it's with Lord Gillingham—"

"He would never come to live here if they were to marry, surely," Mrs. Hughes said.

"Mr. Crawley did," Anna pointed out.

"Let's not worry until it happens. If it happens."

"No, I suppose not," Anna said, pushing herself up from her chair. Her buoyancy of the earlier moments was gone. At the door, she added, "I remembered thinking Lucy had been a silly tart, and brought it on herself. How she'd giggled at everything he'd said to her."

"Anna, it was a completely different situation."

Anna smiled stiffly. "Did you still wish for me to speak to Ivy before Alfred comes for his visit?"

Mrs. Hughes shook her head. "It was a silly idea. I'll tackle the girl. Caution her about going out alone with any boy—"

"Yes, they can't be trusted, can they?" With that, Anna closed the door behind her, leaving Mrs. Hughes in frustrated silence.

In the dim corridor, Anna looked right and left quickly as she did now. Her breath caught in her throat. John was at the far end, his tall bulk a familiar sight. But his shadow seemed to rise from the floor and plunge him into darkness. The beast had the shape of a man, could stain all men, turning even her beloved husband dark.

He spoke. "Anna."

"Yes, Mr. Bates." Her feet dragged as she went to him.

When she arrived before him, she looked up into his face and saw her reflection in his eyes. She did not like what she saw there. Placing one hand on his chest, she tried to make out his heartbeat through the thick fabrics of his uniform.

Instead, he lifted her hand his mouth and pressed his lips to her wrist, capturing her thudding pulse.

"Hello," he said simply and the shadows retreated.

* * *

All progress was lost at the sound of its voice. The sight of an oil-slick grin. And she could smell _It_ again, as the odor of rot wafted out when opening a cemetery vault. Voices swirled around her in the servants' hall and she answered Baxter's question automatically before fleeing.

She had to sit across from _It_ at dinner. The beast jeered, confident that Anna would say nothing. She was struck silent, every sense attuned to her husband beside her. What was he thinking? Could he tell? Would he do anything? Her dinner roiled in her stomach, and she had a horrible moment where she thought that she may vomit right there on the table.

She'd been selfishly grateful that John had stayed behind while sending Thomas in his place so she had his solid form to cling to every night, but now she wished him as far away as possible. She'd even allow that devil to hurt her again, only so that her husband would never discover the truth and act as she feared.

When Mr. Carson finished his meal and rose, Anna could barely stand. Mrs. Hughes met her gaze and gave a signal with her head.

"I should check on Lady Mary's after dinner plans," Anna announced as a way to move from the hall. The housekeeper murmured her own excuse and followed, taking Anna's arm as soon as they were out of sight and pulling the younger woman into her sitting room.

The door closing was such a blessed sound to Anna. Wrapping her arms tightly around her middle, she said, "I have to go home. Please tell Lady Mary that I'm ill," while shaking as if freezing. She stared at the closed door, her eyes wide and frantic. "If he is to taunt Mr. Bates with what he's done—"

"You're cold," Mrs. Hughes fussed. "Let me get you some brandy."

"Yes, yes," Anna said, nodding. She accepted the delicate glass, clutching it with both hands.

Trying to reassure her, Mrs. Hughes explained, "I've had a talk with that man. Told him that I know what he did—"

Anna made a guttural sound.

Mrs. Hughes rushed on. "That I would be watching him—"

"What did he say?" Anna rasped.

"He asked if Mr. Bates knew," Mrs. Hughes admitted. She held up her hand at Anna's fear-filled gasp. "I told him not!"

Anna's eyes narrowed. "What else?" She could sense something boiling under Mrs. Hughes's well-starched surface.

The housekeeper took a sip of brandy before speaking. "He said...That the two of you had just gotten carried away...Had too much to drink..." Looking at her own glass, she put it aside as though it held poison.

"Of course," Anna said, toneless now. "I told you. That would be the story that he'd tell the police and they'd believe him. Men all together—"

"But who would believe that of you? No one here would say that you drink to excess—"

Anna just jutted her jaw. "I should go home."

"Yes, I think it's for the best. I'll explain to Lady Mary."

Shuddering again, Anna rubbed her arms. "May I take the brandy? We don't keep spirits in the house. I feel so cold...Something may be coming on."

Helpless, Mrs. Hughes told her, "Of course."

Feeling a fugitive, Anna tucked the bottle into her apron pocket and slipped from the sitting room. Wrapping herself in her coat, she pulled her hat low on her head, blocking out anything but the path before her feet. The bottle felt heavy in her pocket, as heavy as the bottle had been in their picnic basket as they'd found a private spot beside the stream on the Duneagle estate.

"What have you got in here?" John had asked, swinging the basket.

"You'll see," she'd replied, her smile secret.

When she'd shown him the beer bottle, he'd seemed pleased, but when she went to fill two cups, he stopped her from filling the second one. "I'll just get water," he said, rising awkwardly to go to the stream.

When he returned, she was looking down at her own filled cup, a bit of the joy lost. "Beer isn't really alcohol," she pointed out. "Not like hard spirits."

He lowered himself to the blanket again. "I tried just drinking beer, and it led back to whisky every time." He took a deep breath over his cup. "I swear, I can smell whisky just in the Scottish water."

She gave an embarrassed laugh, still uncomfortable.

"But you enjoy yourself. Good hearty country beer like in your youth. None of that posh sherry with Mrs. Hughes." His eyes were twinkling at her, and she took the challenge, lifting her cup to her lips and taking a gulp.

She managed to drink half the bottle before she waved off his offer to refill her cup. "No thank you," she said with the grave dignity of the inebriated. He was grinning at her. She fell back on the grass, arms stretched out wide. "Mr. Bates," she said, still very formal, "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

Shifting the basket and dishes out the way, he scooted over to her side. "Why would I do that?"

"So that you may have your way with me." She squinted from under her askew hat. Clucking at the back if his throat, he removed her hairpin carefully and then her hat.

With slightly uncoordinated fingers, she toyed with his tie and he took that as an invitation to remove it and his collar.

"Or are you having your way with me?" he suggested, shedding his jacket and unbuttoning his vest.

She watched his ease, mentally cursing that her blouse buttoned up the back. With a flash of sobriety, she glanced around warily. "John...Do you think anyone will see us...If we..."

Falling back on the blanket, she couldn't even say it aloud, only blushing deeply.

His fingers were loosening her hair now and his lovely-ugly face loomed over hers, swimming in and out of her sun-blurred vision. "Everyone's out today with the hunts and ladies' luncheon. But I have a thought...We'd remain nearly clothed—"

The corners of her mouth turned down. That didn't sound very fun.

He whispered in her ear as though they were surrounded after all. "His lordship and I were in transit to Africa, and we had a stop in Naples. While there, we had the opportunity to view ancient Roman mosaics of a...Racy nature."

She started to giggle nervously. "Oh Mr. Bates," she gasped.

He nodded seriously. "Indeed. Such things as I never even knew were done."

"Such as?" Her eyes were very round.

He glanced away. "Let us just focus on the one I'd like to try with you."

"Me?"

"Yes, I've never done this with any woman. It would be just for us, if you enjoyed it."

Pushing up on her elbows, she managed to kiss the edge of his jaw. He turned to meet her mouth for a breathless kiss.

"Just us?" she gasped when their lips parted. It did bother her occasionally, to know that he would ever be her sole lover, while other women had lain with him—women who may have pleased him in ways of which she was ignorant.

"If you enjoy it," he repeated.

She held her tongue in her teeth, unsure but her breath quickening. "What is it?"

He gently pushed her onto her back. His hand swept up her skirt. She looked around again.

"If anyone appears, you can just pop your skirt back down," he assured her. "We'll only take off these..." He undid the bow at the waist of her drawers.

Scooting the garment down her legs, she immediately felt exposed to feel the fresh air on her bare flesh. She was aroused already though.

He reclined between her legs. "You enjoy when I touch you here..."

"Yes..." she admitted, playing with the blades of grass with one hand, while her other hand crept down to stroke his hair.

"And you enjoy my kisses?"

"Of course, silly." She gave his shoulder a light slap before clutching the fabric of his shirt.

"So perhaps you will enjoy if I kiss you here?" he suggested, his breath tickling her flushed and moist folds.

Her head snapped up. "Oh no, John. You wouldn't want to do that! It's not—"

She covered her eyes, not even sure what to say.

"Won't know until I try," he pointed out. She could hear the grin in his voice.

Her head was still swimming, but now she wasn't sure if it was the beer or his light kisses tracing from the top of her stockings to the crease of her hips, moving ever closer to his announced destination. But it was his fingers caressing her first, achingly familiar and stimulating, making her gasp in rhythm with his touch Raising her knees, she lolled her head on the grass and her senses filled with the smell of crushed chamomile. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of the tree above them, a kaleidoscope in shades of green. Her roaming hand found John's head again and now she gave him an encouraging nudge. Why not? Just a try—

His lips tugged at her lightly but her gasp was still loud as the water thumping against the rocks in the stream.

His tongue replaced his fingers, lying down broad strokes that sent her limbs shaking. "All right?" he asked, raising his head to peer at her.

Her only reply was to grasp the back of his neck and lead his head back between her legs. The sensations were new and she was still unsure, but something was driving her want more.

He growled in agreement and returned to his ministrations. His fingers sank deep, giving her something to grip with frantic need. While his tongue tried any number of things, hard, soft, fast, slow, she vocalized her reaction, shy at first, then stronger. Through the haze of ecstasy, she realized that he was a quick learner as her hips rose to meet his mouth again and again, both becoming more bold and confident. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, opening her even more to him and she was nearly lost in one lightning strike before he eased back, causing her to whimper in frustration. He built the sensations again until her release coiled out through her limbs and spine, knocking her head back to the ground. She called out his name in a long triumphant cry, then collapsed onto the blanket, tugging at his shoulder to make him stop. He grumbled in discontent, but rolled to his side.

Through the haze of her disheveled hair, she could see that he'd undone his trousers at some point and his own arousal was very evident. Breathing deeply, he watched her return to her body from under his dark brows as he stroked himself lazily.

If anything, she felt more inebriated when she said, "Do ladies do such a thing to men too?"

He fell back on the blanket as though she'd struck him. "Anna," he gasped.

She would take that as a yes, she decided. She clumsily crawled around, pushing down her skirt at the same time, then spread his trousers open wider.

He continued to protest, if a bit half-heartedly. "You don't have to—"

That only got him an arched eyebrow from her. Did he think that she was not a bold lass, willing to try anything once? True, what faced her was definitely more intimidating that what was between her legs, but no one ever said a woman's lot was an easy one. As he had with her, she tried a number of ways to pleasure him, before settling for a very basic, yet effective method.

Afterward, they were a respectable couple again, cuddling on a blanket, all their clothing back in place. Only someone hearing their guilty giggles and chuckles may wonder what they'd been up to.

"That won't work at all on our bed at home," Anna mused, always practical. "Not long enough for you and me both."

He smiled against her forehead. "Will have to think of some other solution."

"More picnics?" she suggested.

And that's what they'd done. It had been a lazy and decedent summer, escaping the dark house of mourning that was the Abbey and the narrow confines of their own cottage bedroom. They'd take a blanket and stroll to the far glens of the estate to indulge is such intimacies as would likely kill Reverend Travis if he ever knew. Spilling seed on the ground instead of its rightful use for procreation; Sodom and Gomorrah right there in Yorkshire; pagan practices instead of following the Lord's path—Anna did have these fleeting thoughts herself at the time, but their joy felt so necessary with the gloom left by Mister Crawley's death.

Now she wondered if one of the footmen or hallboys had seen them and somehow told the beast. That _It_ had thought this meant she was a wanton woman who would give any man what he needed. They should have remained locked within their blessed cottage—the solid brick shape loomed ahead in the darkening dusk.

The rumbling of a utility jerked away the last flickering scenes of an idealized summer scene from the screen. She clutched the bottle as it swung in her apron pocket. The vehicle stopped beside her and Mr. Bates climbed out, quickly thanking the driver before turning to her.

"You should have waited for me," he chided her. "Not walked home alone."

"I wasn't feeling well," she said weakly, giving him no proper answer.

He wrapped an arm around her. "Let's get you to bed then."

She felt the weight of the bottle again. "I need to use the privy first," she told him with a blush.

"Of course." He walked with her around the cottage and stood watch at the little hut from a few strides away, ever her guardian.

Inside, she emptied the bottle down the hole, muttering an apology to Mrs. Hughes under her breath, and tucked it under the bench for retrieval later.

John put his arm around her again when she appeared, taking her pale face for illness. "A hot cup of tea is what you need," he said.

"Yes, that's just what I want to drink," she agreed.

As they walked back to the cottage, her arm looped through his, she felt the cold breeze move between their bodies again. Her lie whispered in her head, a rasping, vile voice that spoke in curses. Seeing the beast again, knowing it was not some horrible nightmare but a waking terror, showed her that she could not give John her burden after all.

~end Part 3


	4. Chapter 4: The Unchastened Woman

_Warnings:Season 4 Anna/Bates canon fic, thus occasional disturbing references. Also graphic consensual sexual situations._

_Spoilers: S4.8_

_Summary: Freedom is this way, through the brambles._

* * *

Anna peered between the lace sheers of the first floor window of Lady Rosamund's home. Usually when they came to London and she was not needed, she would go the Bond Street shops to stock up on the best flosses, thread, and ribbons for her sewing box, or to window shop and report back to Lady Mary on any garments that may interest her ladyship. And she'd visit a museum gallery for an hour or to pop into a bookshop for a volume for Mr. Bates and herself to enjoy. But she did not feel comfortable to do that now. _It_ lived here, after all.

A dark figure across the square caught her eye. It seemed to have Mr. Bates's set of the shoulders, but before she could be sure, the man was gone, disappearing behind a high hedge. Surely it could not be the beast; the man had been too tall and broad.

She dropped the curtain and shrank back. She hated being this way but could not stop the endless fear and anxiety from coiling through her veins. She went to sit by the parlor's fire, seeking the warmth and picked up her book, but she couldn't move past the first line as she listened for Lady Mary's return.

* * *

Although she'd just dined and had tea with Tony Foyle, Mary asked the footman to have tea sent in for her and Anna, then she went up to the sitting room. When she entered, her maid looked up, her face caught in its now familiar lines of strain. She hated the physical toll this whole terrible thing had wrought on Anna; Mary had sensed that something was wrong long before she knew the details just from the cast to Anna's usually bright eyes and skin.

"It's done," she announced, waving off Anna's assistance with her gloves and hat.

"Done?" Anna gasped.

"Lord Gillingham will dismiss Mr. Green. The bastard will never come to the Abbey again, or be in our London houses."

Anna sank to a chair, too overcome to maintain her proper stance before her mistress.

Mary scooted a chair closer and sat across from her. "Now it's over," she reassured Anna.

Anna stared at her fingers twisting together in her lap. "It'll never be truly over," she said, low. "We shall never have back what we had." She quickly added: "Not that I'm not grateful, your ladyship-"

Mary fixed Anna with her knowing gaze. "Things will never be perfect again?"

Anna shook her head.

"I remember when you first met Bates. It was quite a romantic affair, at least to me, stuck in a parade of dull and damn dull for a choice in husband."

Her eyes still downcast, Anna did manage a wavering smile.

"I was jealous of you, I must say," Mary admitted wryly.

Anna's gaze shot up, shocked. "Jealous of me?"

"You had so much freedom, it seemed to me." Even Mary had to laugh at the irony. "To fall madly in love but remain forever unattached if you could not have him. I can remember how passionate you were about him...about your love. I saw how he looked at you, and I wanted that for me. It really did give me a glimmer of hope at a time in my life when it seemed there was no hope for Matthew and me."

"I'm glad I could help, your ladyship," Anna said, unsure and uncomfortable.

Mary raised her chin. "But that was then. What am I to do now, Anna? Matthew is gone. He was my perfect love. Shall I remain alone the rest of my days?"

"Of course not," protested Anna.

"Yes, you have been-" Mary put up her hand to stop any further protests. "Very nicely, but persistently, have been encouraging me to get out and get some fresh air, to hold my son, and to look over the goods, as it were."

Anna quirked another smile but remained silence.

"But I am wondering, if you are not willing to live with less than perfect now, why am I to do so?"

"It's not the same," grumbled Anna.

"Explain to me how." Mary tipped her head like a dark bird, eyes bright.

"It was just Mr. Bates and myself. We were complete. Now there will always be this...Man...Between us."

"I cannot forget Matthew. But if I am to marry again, I will have to find a way to focus on my new love and yet have him there."

"But you loved Mr. Crawley! This horrible man-" Anna had to jump up from her chair and began to pace.

Mary did not answer her directly. Instead, she mused: "Must be difficult to be perfect for your husband all the time. One of the things I loved most about Matthew was that he knew my faults. I didn't have to waste energy trying to be wonderful and pure all the time. If anything, it made me try to be a better person."

While Anna remained with her back to Mary, staring at the fire, her ladyship kept up with her observations. "I know Bates loves you dearly but perhaps his love can be a bit of a burden at times. To need to give that intense of love in return-"

Anna whirled to face her, fists tight at her sides. "I love him more than life itself!"

"But what you two had is gone," Mary pointed out ruthlessly. "Am I right? That's what you're saying?" When her maid did not reply, Mary pushed on: "What is it, Anna?"

The smaller woman's eyes, dead for so long, were flashing bright now.

"Sometimes you can be a real bitch," Anna said with the strength to show she meant every word. But then she clapped her hands over her mouth and her eyes went wide with fear.

All Mary did was break out in a full grin and both women began to laugh. Then Anna dissolved into sobs and Mary found herself fighting the urge to join her.

Getting control of her wobbling voice, she said, "Will your love be the same again? No. It'll be different. And become its own sort of happiness. Or at least I hope so. For my sake. For George's. For yours." Now the tears came.

Reaching out her hand, she waited. Anna finally grasped her fingertips and gave them a brief squeeze. Both fumbled for their handkerchiefs.

As she blew her nose, Anna decided that Lady Mary was truly moving out of her mourning if she was ready to be a bossy boots again.

A light rap at the door announced the tea's arrival, giving both women time to collect themselves.

Once Anna handed Lady Mary her cup, she asked: "You have straightened things out for Lady Rose as well?"

Lady Mary put away her handkerchief and accepted the cup. "It would seem. Mr. Ross was more agreeable than I expected."

Anna had to have the last word. "I think you should share with Lady Rose your own experiences, my lady. The dangers of developing an attachment to the wrong sort of man."

Mary fixed her with a piercing gaze. "I'll consider that, Anna," she said coolly.

Keeping her smile to herself this time, Anna bobbed a curtsy. "I best check that the baggage is loaded, my lady. Our train is off in an hour." But as she passed the window, she had to look out again. The dark figure was still gone.

* * *

The tall black shadow went through the Abbey's back door. It had been following Anna for months, but tonight she trailed it, watching its swinging gait, two legs and a cane swirling through the dark overcoat's sweep. Yet she lingered at the end of the lane, waiting for him to enter their cottage and the lamplight to brighten the window. She came to the glass and peered in. It was ajar in the summer evening and she could hear John's cheerful whistle. The sound of a man without a care in the world.

As he lit another lamp, the light cast up onto his fair features, giving them a glow. He was her husband again, not the formless shadow she's been tracking home.

She entered and hung her coat on the hook by the door.

"You're home sooner than I expected," John said from the stove where he was putting the kettle on. "Why didn't you ask me to wait? I would have." His smile was broad, his gaze warm.

Yet she felt chilled. Slowly, she removed her hat. "Could you stoke up the fire more? I'm frightfully cold."

"Of course." He quickly tossed coal through the stove's door and closed the window.

Drawing his armchair around to face the stove, he beckoned her to join him. "Here, with me."

After a moment of hesitation, she came to stand before him. He gazed up at her, his arms open. She wanted to question him again, but-

Falling as though from a great height, she collapsed into his embrace. He swept her onto his lap, his lips at her temple.

"You've had another long day," he chided. "First to London, then the charity bazaar-"

She went to speak but her throat closed. Instead, she tucked her head under his chin. "But now I'm here. You're here. That's all that matters."

His big hand cupped her head, holding her to him. She could feel the rush of his pulse under her lips.

"Yes, my love. All that matters," he said quietly.

* * *

Even knowing that Mr. Green was dead, Anna didn't like when men approached her from behind now, and Thomas, with his sneaky, light-footed ways, always seemed to appear out of her blind spot.

She jumped as he was suddenly there in the boot room while she cleaned Lady Mary's dance slippers. He had no shoes with him. She was aware that he was no threat to her, but she was still uncomfortable to be alone with any man but Mr. Bates.

"What do you want?" she said, unfriendly.

He smirked. "I thought I'd pop in and see if you need some assistance."

"Isn't polishing boots beneath an under butler?" She returned to her task.

"Not helping a mate out."

"You're no mate of mine," she muttered.

"I thought that we'd come to an understanding over the years. Why, did I ever thank you and Mr. Bates for helping me to retain my position?"

"No."

"I am now then." There wasn't an ounce of sincerity in his voice.

She dabbed white polish on the slipper and began to buff it carefully.

"You haven't been yourself lately—"

"None of your business."

"I'm worried about you." Thomas put his good hand on the table, his long white fingers spreading wide to brace his weight as he leaned closer to her.

She shifted on her chair. "There's no need."

"If Mr. Bates is giving you trouble, I imagine that Mr. Carson wouldn't help you out. And certainly not his Lordship. But I would help you any way that I could—"

"What would be in it for you?"

"That's not it at all," he protested.

She slammed down the shoe, panic in her throat. Thomas had a way of finding out everyone's secrets and spreading the news wide and far. If he were to tell all the other staff—her shame would know no bounds...If his lordship were to know! She'd thought Mr. Green's death was the end of it, but it seemed that it would never end if Thomas were to get a hold of the information-

She couldn't stop her jaw from quivering. "Leave me," she ground out through clenched teeth.

He stepped closer instead, putting out a hand. He sounded truly concerned. "Anna—"

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, having no idea where this came from, but once she started, she couldn't stop. "Leave me alone!"

Bates burst through the door, his cane swinging with his stumbling gates. "Get away from her!" he bellowed.

Thomas looked wildly from one to the other. "What the hell is wrong with you two?" he gasped, his Cockney accent strong in his fear.

Grabbing the smaller man by the scruff of his neck, Bates wrenched him away from Anna and tossed him out the doorway. "I said get!" he roared.

Mr. Carson appeared in the corridor, with Mrs. Hughes peering around his shoulder. At the sight of them, Bates yanked Thomas back into the room and slammed the door in the two startled faces. Hurling the younger man against the wall, he wrapped his big hand around Thomas's throat.

"Jesus!" Thomas gasped. "What the hell—"

"Listen very carefully, you slimy bastard," Bates growled, his face close to Thomas's. "You're going to stop harassing my wife and if we ever hear that you're spreading rumors about her—"

Anna whimpered in fear. John must have just realized what a threat that Thomas's snooping and gossip was as well.

"I haven't said a word!" Thomas swore.

"And you'll keep it that way." Bates threatened: "Or I'll beat you within an inch of your life, and don't think that this old cripple can't do it—"

Thomas just shook his head frantically. Anna watched as if in a dream, the former footman's face becoming another man's. She enjoyed his terror.

"That won't be the last," promised Bates. "I'll have you sent away without a reference for sure this time. His lordship will do it for me, without needing a reason. You're only still here because of the generosity of Lord Grantham," he sneered, looking at Thomas as though he was a piece of trash.

With that, he pushed the younger man toward the door. "Now get away from us."

Scrambling with the knob, Thomas fled.

"John," moaned Anna, coming out of her trance.

He hurried over and wrapped her in his arms. "I'm sorry you had to see that."

She clung to him, her heart racing.

He mumbled into her hair, "If only I could have been here—"

Pulling his face down to hers, she kissed him deeply for the first time since it had happened, putting all her fear and adrenaline into the kiss. He held her face in his hands, his own pent-up passion rising.

Pulling free, Anna clutched his shaking hands. "You are here now. That's what matters." She lay her head on his chest. "We should go home," she offered, pressing against him.

His chuckle was ragged and he tucked up a lock of her hair that had come loose. "Don't tempt me."

She tugged at his hand, giving him a shaky smile.

He touched her lips as though to capture that uncertainty. He brought her back into his embrace, rocking them gently. "I waited for years, Anna. I can wait for a year, for a decade, for our lifetimes—"

"You held me off for years," she corrected, some of her old fire finally coursing through her bloodstream.

He laughed again, a freer note. "Just proves my point. I'm strong as an ox. I will carry your burden."

Her fear-filled gaze was that of a spooked horse and he gave her a sad smile. "I'll wait," he said again.

* * *

The summer heated the Yorkshire countryside, turning it golden and deep green. Flowers blushed their blooms, bright and strong with scent. On Anna's daily walk to and from the Abbey, everything seemed to be bursting, ready to set their pollen and seeds out across the land. While she felt slight and dried, ready for the winter's darkness and cold. She thought often of Lady Mary's admonishment and her husband's gentle touch. Each day, she brought the two closer and closer together in her resolve.

This day, Mr. Bates had been away with Lord Grantham to Manchester on business. When they returned, and he'd settled his lordship in, the Earl told him to go home for the rest of the afternoon. John found Anna clipping roses from the heavy vine growing by their front door. Hearing his familiar step, she immediately smiled at the sight of him coming along the lane.

"You must be hot as a newly cooked pie," she noted. "Take off that overcoat and your suit jacket. I'll bring out a cool drink."

First he pressed a quick kiss to her lips. "That sounds delightful."

She gave him an affectionate little shove. "Get out to the back garden, under the shade of the chestnut. Your chair's set up."

He was well ensconced in his low canvas chair when she arrived with a pitcher of fresh well water, his collar off too, and his long legs stretched out with ankles crossed. He'd brought the London Times from Manchester and was beginning to read the headlines.

After pouring him a glass, she looked at the overgrown garden, hands on hips. "Everything's nearly done blooming," she noted. Another summer gone, she also thought but did not say. So different than the previous year's. "I should clean up a bit."

"It's your half day," John pointed out. "Relax."

She was already finding the garden shears in a lean-to by the backdoor. "This is relaxing," she said as she began to deadhead the daisies and carnations, giving the chrysanthemums room to branch out and bloom. His only reply was a grumble in the back of his throat as he became engrossed in his paper.

From the tilt of the sun, Anna realized that an hour had passed before she was at his side again, having worked her way around the small garden. Her basket was brimming over with spent flowers and browned stems.

John was still reading, now at the back of the newspaper, his head bent over it. She could see that his fair skin was turning hot pink. Tsking under her breath, she lay her hand on it, feeling the heat rising already. He flinched away, the paper crackling abruptly in his hands.

"I'm sorry," she said, low.

"You just startled me," he said, but didn't look at her. He still gripped the paper tightly, but not reading anymore.

Putting her shears in her apron pocket, she stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders first, then ran them down over his dark waistcoat. His chest began to rise and fall as if he was running. She pressed her lips to the top of his head. His sleek hair was hot as his skin had been.

Just last summer, they'd been like this. She'd been caressing his chest, and instead of remaining frozen, pressing the newspaper to his lap as he was now, John had tugged her down to his lap, causing the folding chair to collapse in a clatter, echoing their laughter.

He rose abruptly. "Sorry," he said as he stepped away from her. He gazed off to the distance. "Right. Well, I think I'm take a turn around the lane before dinner." He left her mute by his chair, his paper lying forgotten on the grass.

She looked down at the upright chair, seeing them as they'd been before, bodies tangled in the chair's canvas, her apron and skirt, kissing and laughing, his hands finding her hips and breasts. She'd finally pulled free to check the Tripps' windows that overlooked their garden.

"John," she'd scolded, even as she'd slid a leg between his thighs, teasing him. "We should go inside."

"You're right, my dear," he said solemnly. " It's much too hot out here." He gave her neck one last nip before rolling off her and struggling to stand. Offering his hand for her to rise, he spent too much time brushing grass from her dress, giving her breasts one more caress before stepping back.

"Naughty man," she scolded, taking him in hand to hurry to the cottage.

He slammed the door and plunged them into darkness. Their eyes were not accustomed to the dimness, and day became night, the chatter of the birds and carts down the lane became the silence of midnight.

"I'm naughty, but you're a dirty girl," he said, grasping her wrists to hold her seeking hands, stained with dirt and leaves, away from his pristine white shirt. "This is my last good shirt before laundry day."

"We'll have to get it off you then," she laughed, trying to move toward the stairs. He held her to the wall instead, pressing her arms above her head and leaning his bulk into her. Her breath caught. He stared down at her, the humor leaving his gaze, replaced by desire. His kiss had none of the gentleness of foreplay, but the thirst of a hot afternoon. She returned his passion, straining up on her tiptoes. Her leg went back between his, rocking against his arousal as though pushing forward for a higher speed. Suddenly, the languid mood of the summer day was gone, replaced by an overwhelming need. They could not wait to go upstairs—it was as though some spell would have been broken to even step away from each other.

His large hand shackled her wrists, their clothing pushed and pulled aside with his one free hand, her strong thighs clinging to his hips, his strong leg pinning her to the wall, their mouths sealed by their rasping breathing, her hair falling down, down, down.

Breaking her lips free, needing to gasp for air, riding a crest so high as to scream at the speed and pressure to her body, not from fear, but the child's thrill of the highest point of the swing or looking down from the tallest branch in the tree. Again—and again.

"Anna!" called her husband, his body crashing with the waves, and her reply was a triumphant cry, still locked in his grasp and yet miles above him, shattering and falling to the ground as a thousand fluttering bright leaves.

She'd turned her face away from his intense gaze as they slid back to the solid floor; back into their bodies. Shame at her wanton manner; confusion at overwhelming release even while being held down by his strong grip.

And yet she found herself yearning for that again on occasion. Rising above him in the dark of their bedroom, tickling his ribs until he snared her hands and pinned them behind her back, to hear herself whisper, "Yes, John." Even as he bound her, she controlled the speed and intensity of their ride; two prisoners living free. He came to know the need in her gaze, that she wished to be overwhelmed by his size and strength, to be the delicate bloom in his strong fingers, as close to crushed as possible without leaving a bruise on the pale petals.

This was their deepest held secret. No one could know. No one. Or had there truly been a crack in their world after all? Had that man seen this somehow? Heard it in the scorn of her reply to his unwanted approach. "Mr. Bates keeps me very satisfied." Did he somehow know, and think she wanted even more; to be dragged through the corridor and slapped and held down?

This was not the memory that she wanted to dwell on. Retreating to the house, she washed her hands until they were red from scrubbing, then started tea.

John returned as she was laying it out on the table, his face still flushed.

"Where did you go?" she asked, hating the stricken tone in her voice.

"For a stroll in the woods," he replied, and the shame on his features told her everything.

Anger surged in her. She slammed down a plate of biscuits on the table. "Why couldn't he have just gone for a stroll in the woods?"

John sat heavily. "Because he didn't just want a woman. He wanted to hurt one and see her shame."

Anna remained standing, gripping her chair. "I wish you hadn't done that. I wanted—"

He dropped his gaze and poured out tea with shaking hands.

"It's time," she announced.

"You can't just say it and have it be true."

She took her seat but did not drink her tea or take food. There was another need to be filled. "When I was a girl, my sister and I walked to school by this one old bachelor farmer's cottage. He had a big, mean dog that would bark viciously at us every day." Her throat closed suddenly, surprising her.

Taking a deep breath, she continued. "One day, the dog broke its rope and got me."

John took her hand across the table. With her free hand, she touched the scar on her skin by her eye. "He knocked me down on the stones, tore my dress, bit my leg before the farmer came out and pulled him off me. It felt like forever—"

"My love," John moaned.

"My father was a tenant of this farmer. He could do nothing. And it was the shortest route to school. My sister had had scarlet fever and was weak, smaller than even me." She gave John a little smile. "Once I recovered from my injuries, we had to take that path again.

"It was very hard. I shook and cried for the first week, but I made it past. The dog barked still and lunged on his rope. The next week was a bit better, and so forth, until I didn't even hear the dog's barking anymore."

Squeezing his wide fingers, she made John meet her gaze. "It won't be as it was before. Not at first. But it can't be what we had before unless we start again."

Standing, she tugged at his hand, and after a moment, he rose too. They left their tea to go cold and climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

~ end, Part Four


	5. Chapter 5: The Siren's Song

_Warnings: S4; graphic consensual sexual situations; a scene of violence_

_Spoilers: S4.8 and Christmas Special (S4.9 US)_

_Summary: A change of scene can make a world of difference._

_A/N: I decided to stop tormenting readers (and me) and do the last part as one chapter instead of two. Can't take them being sad anymore!_

* * *

Below their bedroom window, cows passed on the way to the barn, their bells clanging gently. For Anna, it was a tolling that matched the thud of her heartbeat. She lay on her back in their bed, pleating her nightgown with nervous fingers. It felt odd to be wearing it in the late afternoon, but she still couldn't bear to be unclothed—just one more aggravating effect from her attack. John had always taken such simple delight in her naked body and she couldn't give him that one thing.

He lay beside her on his back as well, stripped down to his vest and pants. His seeking hand found hers and laced their fingers.

"Anna," he said softly.

"Right then," she said, determined. She rolled on her side and tugged him to do the same.

He placed his wide hand on her cheek. "Anna, I just want to make you happy—"

"Giving you pleasure is what makes me happy," she insisted.

He carefully stroked a tear from her eyelashes. "We're in quite a fix," he murmured. "Because all I want to do is please you..."

She had to laugh but then was serious again. "I've been thinking of a way past this—"

He winced at her lack of romance, but she forged on. "To get beyond this freezing up. I think we can work together—"

His thumb tapped her chin for emphasis as he said: "I like that."

She took his hand and led it to the buttons at the neck of her gown. "You can undo these," she whispered.

He complied and when he'd freed all the fasteners, she took his hand again, leading it inside the bodice. Her small hand urged his larger to cup her breast, and she pushed his thumb to circle her nipple. It was already tight, but with tension, not desire.

His gaze never left her face. His breathing quickened. She tried closing her eyes, but it was too much like the darkness of the boot room that night.

Rolling onto her back again, she sought and found his other hand. Together, they pushed up her gown's hem. Despite the warm summer air, her bare skin pimpled and her limbs began to shake.

"Anna—"

"It's all right," she said.

As though he'd dared her, she placed his hand between her legs. She'd kept her knickers off to make things as easy as possible. The last thing she wanted was wrestling with undergarments. Their fingers moved over her dry skin together.

"Anna, you're not—"

"John," she said sharply. "Why do you pull away every time?"

"I don't want to hurt you...I can't stand to see this agony on your lovely face," he rasped.

"You hurt me when you reject me—" she told him haltingly.

"Reject you?" he protested.

"What do you call this?" She kept his hands tight to her, even as she felt him try to tug them free.

"I am taking care of you. Protecting you from pain. Where I failed before." His face showed his utter self-loathing, the expression she hated seeing from him.

"You couldn't have known!" she insisted.

"You said that you felt ill. I should have gone downstairs with you—"

"You were listening to the music. I was perfectly capable of getting a Beecher's powder without your assistance—"

"And he saw you go, and knew you'd be alone, vulnerable—" His eyes glazed and in a terrifying moment, Anna could see that he was in Green's mind, living his vile existence—the hunter seeking the wounded prey.

"It was a stranger. I told you." Green was dead now; what did a lie matter?

The air stilled. The cows' lolling was distant. Birds' nightsong rose from the trees outside their window.

John blinked slowly and gave the slightest of nods. Leaning forward, he kissed her, just a brushing of lips. Yes, she'd forgotten that they should kiss. Leaving his hand nestled to her breast, she cradled his jaw and deepened the kiss. She pressed his other hand to her center, encouraging him to caress her in the achingly familiar patterns. At last his fingers slickened, her arousal causing him to groan against her lips, a sound of such pain that tears returned for her.

"Yes, John. We're going to be all right," she promised.

Looping her leg over his hip, she guided one of his fingers into her body and they both hissed as she painfully tensed.

"It's fine," she said. "Just...slow."

"I can do slow." He kissed the edge of her cheekbone, her brow, her fluttering eyelids.

"You did go on that stroll in the woods," she pointed out and was surprised that they could both laugh. Perhaps things would be fine after all.

She eased his second finger in, knowing just how accommodating that she would have to be. Guiding his head to her breast, she could even giggle as his cold nose stroked the gown aside to find her nipple. He chuckled around it, making her gasp. Yes, he could still give her moments of sudden desire, even if she couldn't maintain it before her thoughts began to scramble again, as if she suddenly slipped on her way up steep stairs.

Fumbling with his pants' buttons, she pushed them open and gasped his bare flank to pull him to her.

"Are you—"

"Don't—"

"I love you with all my heart, Anna," he murmured in her ear as he replaced his fingers in one smooth thrust. When she gasped and clenched her jaw, she silently thanked him for doing it quickly. She gave a rusty laugh when her first thought was that even losing her virginity had not hurt like this.

Before John could question her again, she kissed him, frantic. Holding one of his hands to her lower back to keep her from retreating, she turned her nails into his hip, urging him on.

Was _It _here? Was the beast watching? Did she hear that laugh? Even if death, _It _was a part of her now.

She glanced over her shoulder, but only saw the bedroom door that she'd insisted John close and lock. But she still felt as vulnerable. Rolling onto her back, she drew John over her like a thick, impenetrable shell. Releasing a deep breath, she relaxed more, able to welcome him deeper.

Propped on his elbows, his face creased with the pain in his knee and the agony of holding off his release, John gazed down at her, questioning. She knew what she had to do. Slipping her hand over his thigh, she found his tight sac. He quaked at her touch.

"No, Anna, I can—"

Determined, she stroked him, knowing his body as well as her own and with a deep sob, his thrusts quickened until one great shudder wracked his body. He repeated: "I love you...Anna," and collapsed beside her. She felt nothing but deep relief. Her limbs thrummed and her skin tingled, but she knew it would not happen for her.

"I'm sorry—damn pig," he mumbled into her ear.

She combed his hair back, loving how soft it was, just like a child's. "It was wonderful," she assured him, and she meant it. She was his wife again.

* * *

Once she'd had a man. He had been hers alone, like a secret locked in a box at the top of her wardrobe next to Gwen's typewriter. In time, she'd made him a better man from the rough parts that he gave her. Now the fragments lay at her feet, and she must determine how to put him back together.

He'd made a woman out of a girl's dreams, her strong will and the untapped chambers of her heart. There'd been nothing but truth between them after she learned about his first wife and his dark past. It was as though some dam was breached and he never held anything back again.

But now there were lies between them. She couldn't know if he'd played a role in Green's death but in order to confront him, she'd have to admit that the valet had attacked her. A tangled web was holding them out of reach from each other. Lady Mary had made it sound so simple—accept this new man and he would want her—but she felt so very lost.

And now the anniversary of her attack approached. She was not afraid for herself since she lived with it every day, but was fretful for him. She expected one of his dark moods. Like the coward that she had become, she was relieved when Lady Mary asked that Anna stay late on the evening of her father's birthday celebration. The younger set would have a dance party after the older family members retired.

John took the news surprisingly well. "I'll make an early evening of it then," was all he'd said. As the day went on, his manner became downright euphoric and more than once, she heard his deep chuckle coming from the servant's hall. Mrs. Hughes met her worried gaze, her own face perplexed. She knew what day it was too.

But with the busy planning for the party that evening, neither woman had time to confer.

Anna was rushing along the gallery, a thousand things on her mind, feeling jumpy despite her best internal talking to, when a hallboy backed hurriedly out of a guest's room, and the two collided. He was a healthy-sized boy and her wrist twisted under their combined weight as she caught herself on the wall.

"Sorry, Mrs. Bates!" gasped the boy.

Gritting her teeth in pain, Anna gripped her wrist. "It's all right, Georgie. Just be more careful in the future. If I'd been one of the family or guests—"

In the end, the injury was too painful for Anna to be any use undressing Lady Mary. Madge offered to take over, her eyes glowing at the challenge with Lady Edith not in England. Anna couldn't argue.

"Get yourself home," Mrs. Hughes ordered, helping Anna on with her coat. "It's all for the best I think. Check on your husband."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she said. Both women had an unspoken sense of dread. She hurried home along the dim lanes, the bright and raucous house dropping away behind her.

The cottage appeared dark and telling herself that she'd been worried for nothing, Anna opened the door as quietly as possible so not to disturb her sleeping husband.

He wasn't in bed.

John sat at the table, his back to the entry. A single candle burned beside the open whiskey bottle before him. His large hand was turning an empty glass. In the silent room, she could smell the sharp odor of liquor.

"John."

He only gave a nod. "You're home early."'

"It appears that it's a good thing." She removed her hat and coat quickly, hanging them up, then came to sit with him. When he didn't reply, she asked, "What's happening, John? You seemed so happy today—"

He quirked a smile. "I was happy because I'd made up my mind. Was going to get rip-roaring drunk tonight."

"But why?" Of course there were a thousand reasons why, but only one reason for him not to; she needed him. She pushed away her anger and grasped his wide wrist.

"It told me that everything would feel better." He stroked the bottle's label as he touched her breast, with reverence and desire.

"_It_?"

"It talks to me," he whispered and she knew just what he meant. So many voices had been in her head this past year, speaking the darkest, cruelest words.

"Have you drank yet?"

"No."

"You were waiting for me."

"I didn't expect you so soon," he protested.

"You were waiting for me," she repeated, hanging onto his hand with all her strength.

"You told me a story about a dog," he said, his voice slow and slurred as though he were drunk now. "I have a story about a dog."

"Yes?"

"In the war. We lived in these squalid camps, no better than natives. Stray dogs would come around, feed off our refuse. One, he bit a couple of soldiers. We couldn't know if he had rabies, or was just that hungry.

It came to the Major…Colonel Crawley was a major then."

He gave her a quavering smile. "And you know his lordship. There was no way he could kill a dog. So it came to me."

She lay her head on his now balled fist, suddenly too weak for her neck to support its weight.

"Bullets were too precious and the camp too crowded to be taking pot shots. I had to walk up to it, keep its trust until the last moment. I can still see its eyes now, glance up at me, looking for a handout. I beat him to death with a stick."

She pressed her fist to her mouth to keep back the sobs.

He stroked her hair, his touch so infinitely gentle.

"I did what I had to do. Just washed off the blood and went back to my duties. But that's when I started to drink, and didn't stop until they put me in jail. All the death I'd seen, all the times I'd pulled a trigger, that damn skinny dog is what made me drink."

She found the strength to move, just far enough to crawl into his lap. His long arms came around her, holding her tight to him. She'd been terrified of losing him to prison for killing Green, but now she saw that he'd willingly walked into the cell to save her. Once again, she'd have to find a way to free him, and for the first in a very long time, she felt the fire of a purpose. She must keep her husband safe.

"You're a different man now," she promised him. "That man is gone."

His laugh shook them both. His embrace tightened.

She couldn't stop herself from saying, "I'm a different woman too. Just not—"

"No," he said firmly.

With a grumpy noise, she settled deeper on his lap.

"Have you thought that perhaps you're a better person now?" he said.

Struggling, she tried to get free. "How could you—"

His grip remained secure but not tight. Short of fighting him, she couldn't get loose.

"Take it from someone who's had to start over several times, it's terrifying. As though being stripped bare, weak as a naked babe. Down to being nothing," he said and she heard the long ago echo of his words.

"It's been a year," she grumbled.

"I'm older than you, my love. Trust me, it takes more time than you want."

Grumbling again, unable to find any words that didn't sound impatient or bitter, she lay her head on his shoulder. He rocked her gently. "Let me help, please."

"You are helping," she insisted, muttering into his lapel.

His chuckle sounded hopeless to her.

"Here's an idea," he said, forcing cheer in his tone. "Let's start over, the new John and Anna."

Just as he'd predicted, she was afraid and stiffened in his arms. "What...What do you mean?"

She felt his understanding smile against her temple. "Well...I did an awfully terrible job of courting you, I must say. All brooding and mysterious. Still can't believe you kept waiting patiently for me to stop being such a noble ass."

She laughed through her tears.

"Let me court you, Miss Smith. Let's walk out together, and reach an understanding, and then perhaps, if you'll have me, I'll write to your mother."

"So I must be a new person as well?"

"If you wish," he said, guarded.

"We'll be going to London for the Season. Perhaps we can go out on more dates," she suggested. She'd made a bad show of their dinner out at the hotel; hopefully she could do better with another chance.

"If we have the time," he said with a sigh. "Always seems to be such a whirl in the city."

"Yes," she agreed, dejected.

"We'll just have to make our own special evenings," he said, determined.

She stroked his cheek. He made it sound so easy. But it hadn't been for a year now, and she couldn't imagine how it ever would be, no matter how sweet her husband's words. She just couldn't let it go.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes and Anna spent a busy afternoon reviewing the packing lists for the upcoming London season. Nothing must be forgotten or misplaced and they were a well-oiled machine over the years of planning. Finally, they were both satisfied and could put their notepads aside.

"London will be a nice change for you," Mrs. Hughes said as she poured two glasses of sherry.

"I suppose. I don't look forward to sharing a room with maids in the women's corridor," Anna replied, tense.

Mrs. Hughes scooted her chair closer to Anna's and checked that her door was closed before asking: "So things are back to as they should be with you and Mr. Bates?"

"Yes—No."

Mrs. Hughes sipped her sherry and waited for Anna to find her thoughts.

She finally spoke, low. "I was able to lie with him again; to be a proper wife for him. But something's missing."

Mrs. Hughes cleared her throat.

Anna shifted her gaze around the room, unable to look Mrs. Hughes in the eye. She doubted the older woman knew of what she spoke but at the same time, she had to unburden her mind. She was about to crumble from the pain she carried every waking moment.

"There's a feeling that one has—a completion. Sometimes it hurts for the want of it and it's a great relief, sometimes it's a wonderous bliss that you never want to end and then it does, but with such a satisfying explosion of feeling," she said quickly. "And I can't seem to get there. I can forget for enough time to feel the utter joy of being joined with my husband, but then it's so tantalizingly close and I can't—" She shook her head in frustration. "I simply can't let go."

She darted her gaze to Mrs. Hughes. She expected the other woman to be writhing with discomfort or her face to be aflame but instead, Mrs. Hughes was sitting very still and her cheeks were pale.

Finally, the housekeeper found words. "You're a strong girl, Anna. Surely you can just will yourself—"

Anna interrupted impatiently. "It doesn't work like that." She waved a clenched fist around, making Mrs. Hughes sit back in her chair. "It's like when you hit your funny bone and your arm must twitch and tingle. It's a bodily response, not something that I simply decide to do." She slumped in her seat. "And yet I am somehow stopping it."

Mrs. Hughes took another sip from her glass, deep in thought. "But Mr. Bates is...fine?" Now her cheeks were pink.

"Yes...No," Anna found herself mumbling. She didn't want to share her husband's embarrassment as well as her own. "As I said, it's not really something that can be stopped when it's happening. But he feels that it's _he_ who's failing somehow when I don't respond as I did in the past. But it's me!"

Her fear for her marriage was nearly overwhelming. It was her duty to please her husband and with many other men, lying there so he could have his way would be enough. Not so with John Bates. He desperately needed to take her to ecstasy; she could see that in his tormented gaze as he loomed above her, his touch everywhere that worked in the past but without the same results.

She had cupped his cheek. "John, just let go."

Exactly the wrong thing to say. He had slipped from her, his flesh loose. "It's nothing," he had murmured against her neck, leaving a trail of his tears on her skin. "I'm fine."

The two women sat in discontented silence. Faint footfall outside the housekeeper's sitting room door signaled that life in the great house was going on all around them, no matter how long they tarried.

Anna spoke slowly. "I suppose...When there's the release, you're so vulnerable. The entire cottage could fall on me at that moment and I wouldn't have a care in the world. Maybe..." Her voice trailed off.

Mrs. Hughes picked up her thread. "You're afraid to be that unguarded ever again?"

"It can't be," protested Anna. "John is there; right there. No one can hurt me." It didn't help matters that she only wanted him to be on top of her now, a position that was painful for him and she had always taken the longest to respond. But she needed the security of his bulk covering her; his weight was her shelter from remembered blows.

She lapsed into silence again and the housekeeper took her glass from her slack grasp, putting it on the desk.

"My dear," Mrs. Hughes said, feeling helpless.

"And now we are to go to London for the season and will be bedded apart in the servants' corridors and be on duty night and day—" Anna said a bit hysterically. "I need him so much, even though I can't give him what _he_ needs—"

Before Mrs. Hughes could respond, there was a tap at the door. "Yes?" she called out, giving Anna's shoulder a comforting pat before she moved to the door.

Bates peeped around it. "I was wondering if you knew—" He spotted his wife. "Where Anna is," he finished unnecessarily.

Anna's spine tensed. "I was just having a chat with Mrs. Hughes," she ground out. "There's no need to worry that I've gotten carried off—"

The housekeeper furrowed her brow in confusion. The poor lass was terribly conflicted for sure. Desperate to be close to her husband and yet resentful in the same impulse within him.

"I wasn't worried," Mr. Bates said carefully, but Mrs. Hughes could see his pain. Anna had not looked at him yet.

"I think we're finished here," she said. "Why don't you get on home."

As Anna passed, she gave the younger woman's arm a squeeze. "And don't worry," she murmured. "It will sort itself out yet."

* * *

John stayed true to his word. Whenever they could spare an hour or so, he and Anna would stroll through busy London streets, admiring the lights and bright shops, or wander through the parks and museums. When they had less time, they'd steal kisses and caresses in the shadows under the outside stairs, reminding Anna of those forbidden times in the Abbey's courtyard. Perhaps that's why she began to feel that same flickering passion and need at his touch from those years. Just as then, there was nothing they could do with these feelings, at least not until they returned to Downton.

John's lips found a sensitive spot between her high collar and the wing of her hair. "Anna, I need you so much—"

"I know," she groaned. "But—"

"But," he agreed, even as he pulled her hips tighter to his.

The sound of scuffling shoes on the steps above them made them jump apart.

"Damn," John ground out. When the footman passed by, not seeing them, he drew her close again. "We have to find some time together. Let's go to a hotel on our half day—"

"A hotel?" Anna flushed at the idea of checking into one for only a few hours; surely the desk clerk would know—But then his palm found his breast and it sounded like a simply wonderful idea.

But there no half-days with the endless whirl of parties, visits and events. Anna tried not to notice the irony of finally feeling painful, burning desire, there wasn't a thing that she could do about it.

* * *

Once she'd removed her hat, Mrs. Hughes waved off the London house's chattering staff. "Let me get my feet under me," she warned them. Anna gave her an understanding smile.

As she stepped into the common office for she and Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes did take a moment to ask, "And how are you and Mr. Bates?"

Anna's expression became a carefully held mask. "Don't think we've sat down even since we got here."

"Of course," Mrs. Hughes said, frustrated. Taking the chair before the desk, she started flipping through the journals from Mrs. Butte until she found the room assignments. With she and Daisy added, and the Levison's arrival with Mr. Levinson's valet, the beds would need to be shuffled again.

"Mrs. Bates, I wonder if you could help me," said a voice from behind Anna.

"Of course, what is it?" she said, turning to give young Ethan Slade a smile. He'd quickly learned that she was the person with the most answers to many inquires.

"Once I've emptied Mr. Levinson's cases, where should they be stored? I understand space is at a premium."

"The footmen will carry them to the upper attics. Just tell Mr. Bates, and he'll find enough boys."

Relieved, Ethan asked: "And Mr. Bates is?"

"The tall man...With the cane."

She hated identifying her husband that way but Ethan only smiled. "I'd wondered who he was. Figured that shows what nice folks the Crawleys are."

Finding herself smiling back, she nodded. "Yes, they are very kind. You'll enjoy your stay here."

"I am already." His smile became a grin. "Thank you much. I better get going. Those trunks won't unpack themselves."

"Good on, Mr. Levinson," she said.

"I don't know why everyone keeps calling me that," he muttered as he hurried off, but Anna found herself rooted to the spot.

She'd talked openly and freely with a strange man. She'd not tensed at his warm manner. It was as though she'd forgotten...She had.

Mrs. Hughes called her back to the office. "Could you help me with something?" the housekeeper asked, echoing the valet.

Anna joined her. But rather than sitting, Mrs. Hughes bustled off, pulling Anna along in her wake. The housekeeper showed her a small room off a narrow stairwell. From the outside of the mansion, it appeared to be a decorative turret capped with a cone-shaped roof. Diamond-paned windows overlooked the London roofscape. The room was packed with dusty old furniture, but under it all, there was a bed, bureau and narrow wardrobe.

"We need a bed in the women's corridor for Daisy, and another in the men's for Mr. Levinson," Mrs. Hughes explained. "I thought it would be best to move you and Mr. Bates to this room—once it's cleaned out."

Without a word, Anna fell into Mrs. Hughes' arms, releasing a sob.

"It's not much," Mrs. Hughes said, fighting her own tears.

"We'll make it perfect. Just like we did the cottage."

In the end, Ethan helped as well, his cheerful American manner blinding him to the Bates' urgency. However, once empty, the room appeared even more dismal.

"No paint to fix this up," John said, leaning on his cane. Doubtful, he looked at the narrow, short bed.

"I'll get a bright cover for it," suggested Anna. "And some curtains for the windows."

"Don't do that," he said. "I love this view. A posh view it is," he added, his dialect sneaking east of Whitechapel, reminding her that he was a Londoner under it all.

"I won't then." She leaned under his arm and wrapped hers around his bulk. "Whatever makes you happy."

* * *

His limited enthusiasm was even more tempered on the night. They snuggled together, as there was no other way to be in the narrow bed, Anna tucked under his arm. She looked at his feet sticking out from the blanket and propped on the brass footboard.

Frowning, she said, "We must ask Mrs. Hughes for another room for you. We cannot have you like this," even as she wanted nothing of the kind. Rather than discomfort, she found great reassurance to be pressed head to foot along his long form under the sloped low ceiling.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said without hesitation, peering at her from under his forelock with his sleepy eyes.

She kissed him soundly and his drooping mouth turned into a smile.

"It's the most comfortable bed in the world," he rumbled, "we just have to turn in unison."

Giggling, she buried her face in his shoulder. "This is wonderful," she gasped, once she could speak again. "It's like we're far above it all, just the two of us."

"Yes indeed," he said, his voice going even deeper and his lips sought hers. She slipped her leg over his thighs, half-crawling onto him to reach his mouth. With a happy growl, he pulled her on top of him—

"Mr. Bates!" came from the landing below their door. "You're wanted!"

He dropped his head back, striking it smartly on the headboard. "Son of a—"

"John!" she hissed.

"Just a minute!" he called out, crawling from the bed reluctantly. Then he stood and loudly rapped his skull into the ceiling. Collapsing back, Anna was overcome with giggles.

He leaned over to kiss her once more. "I love to hear your laugh," he murmured.

Smoothing her hand down his cheek, she scolded, "Get to work, Mr. Bates."

Grumbling, he tugged his clothes on. Remorseless, Anna snuggled down, pulling over John's pillow and shoving it under her head to join hers. All was fair in love and limited sleep time.

"You," he fumed, but with laughter in his own voice. Rooting under the blanket, he snagged her ankle and pulled up her foot to tickle it with his tongue.

Gasping for air, half between laughter and desire, she protested, "No, John, no—"

His lips were on the back of her knee. Her nightgown fell forward, exposing her to his gaze.

"Yes…" he murmured.

"Mr. Bates!" came the call again. "You must hurry!"

He snapped to attention, and knocked his head into the ceiling once more. Anna stuffed her fist into her mouth to keep from howling with laughter.

"Coming!" he bellowed, truly frustrated now.

She couldn't stop her sassy mouth. "No, you aren't."

He shook a finger at her. "Later, my wife. You will pay for that later."

Her eyes sparkled up at him, then her smile faded.

He was pulling on his boots but still noticed. "What is it, Anna?"

"I just…I just felt something—" She stopped. She wasn't going to say anymore for fear of killing these fledgling emotions by bringing them out into the light.

He rubbed the back of his head. "I think I'm going to be feeling this for a long time." He pouted and she loved him with a force that brought tears to her eyes.

Seeing this, he scooped her up, making her feel like a white dove in his palms, fragile and ethereal. "I'll make you feel something…Later." His confident words sounded uncertain, however. She'd hurt him too many times before. Not wanting to make any promises, she lifted her mouth to receive his kiss, silencing both of them.

"We'll go out to supper. To some nice café, just the two of us," he said. "Get away from the servants' table. It's like being on a telegraph line with a flock of crows sometimes."

"Yes, that sounds lovely," she said, laying her forehead to his. He lowered her back to the bed.

"Get some more sleep, my dear. Tomorrow's another long day," he said with a sigh.

"Ah, to have the glamour and excitement of London," she chanted, curling back into the pillows and twisted bedding.

"Anna!" came Mrs. Hughes' cry from below. "Lady Mary needs you!"

She turned her face into the pillow as John chuckled mercilessly.

* * *

Despite the threat of rain, the family had accepted an invention from the Breakwells to ride to Kew Gardens on a specially outfitted barge. They would be gone the entire afternoon, leaving their own personal servants behind because of the limited space aboard the vessel. Bates offered to help Mr. Carson catch up polishing the silver, but he told Anna to go lie down for a few hours.

"They'll be back at tea time, and will need to be dressed for the dinner party after that, then another At Home. It'll be another late evening. Rest when you can," he urged her.

But when Anna entered their room, she found herself on edge, sleep the furthest from her mind. Dark storm clouds were gathering over the city, hanging low as Wren's spires. Thunder rumbled in the distance, making her skin prickle with excitement. This high in the house, the heat was oppressive, causing her gown to stick to her skin. She stripped to put on her dressing gown, but only draped it loosely over her shoulders and went to the window to view the rooftops. Far to the south, lightning was flickering. She took down her hair, shaking it down her back.

Once, she and John had been caught in a rainstorm returning from church. They'd sought shelter in a hay shed, huddled together until their laughter turned to passion. The thunder had shaken the very bones in her body as the storm passed directly overhead. His arms wrapped tightly around her as she moved above him, John had begged her to scream. They never dared be too vocal, whether on their wedding night in the Abbey, or in their row cottage with the shared walls, but here, far from anyone and anything, the world erupting around them, she could finally give voice to the breadth of her pleasure. She'd nearly lost consciousness as the blood had pounded in her head, her vision blinded by the lightning forking outside their shelter. Her throat had been raw, but no one but John could hear, his ear by her mouth as he surged into her.

Her screams had been unheard that night too, drowned out by the rapturous notes of the singer. Green's mocking words echoed in her head and a clap of thunder made her jump.

She'd loved storms as a child. She'd run out across the fens, her hair streaming behind, until she gasped for breath. Her mother would call for her, worried that she'd be struck by lightning but she didn't care. Even before John had awakened all the possibilities of the human response, a part of her had known this was existed; the sense of her body uniting with the earth's very movements.

Pushing open her gown so the breeze stroked her skin, she moved closer to the open window. No one could see her and it was as though she was one of the nude statues crowning a great temple. Her nipples tightened and her heartbeat quickened. Once, John had urged her to give herself pleasure while he was in prison—weren't they in separate cells now, with her unable to complete her response to their lovemaking?

Her hand crept down her stomach—

The door swung open and she gave a little cry. John filled the doorway, his brows raised in surprise. She blushed violent red, mortified. Clutching her gown around her, she garbled something.

A slow grin crossed his face. He closed the door, locking it. "Sometimes we need to try and fix things on our own," he said knowingly.

"Cheeky begger," she said with relief, letting her gown fall open again. "But since you're here, you can lend a hand."

He chuckled, a joyful sound. "Are you sure? I can go out again. The hallboys are under a pile of boots to polish." His hand went to the doorknob.

"Don't you dare," she scolded. "Get those clothes off and join me. It's a lovely storm coming."

His eyes darkened to mahogany; he remembered that day too. Perhaps she should have asked him to remember those good times with her all along.

He removed his clothes with more haste than care and this made her very happy. There was none of the hesitancy, even dread, that had come to tinge their last few months. Sitting on a stool, he opened his arms to her. He was always so creative when it came to their height difference. In the past, she loved such moments when she could loom over him, fooling herself that she had the power to control this large man.

"Please," he begged, gently tugging at her dressing gown.

With a deep breath, she let it slip from her shoulders and waited for the fear. Only the warm breeze wafted over her skin and then his wide palms squeezed her waist, holding her down. He lapped at her breasts, heating her even more. Winding her arms around his neck, she rocked against him, feeling his tears on her collarbone.

Lightning crackled and they clung to each other. She glanced at the bed and giggled. "I don't think we'll fit."

"I am a determined man with a very definite mission," he said, peering over her shoulder as he stroked his fingers through her hair.

Standing but taking care not to bang his head, he tipped it and watched her face as he suggested, "But I should be on the bottom so I can hang my feet off the end of the bed."

She giggled again. "I suppose," she said slowly.

As fast as he could move, John darted to the bed and lay out flat. He held out his hand. "Come along then," he said as though she was a great distance away.

Another great clap of thunder and flash of light. She scurried quickly to him, her skin twitching with the electricity in the air. But when she straddled his sturdy body, he puts his hands on her hips and urged her up towards his head.

"John?" she said uncertainly.

"Please," he said again. "I've missed you so much."

Finding courage, she eased forward, sliding along his body, hearing his breathing quicken as she drew closer. She pressed her hands on the sloped ceiling, feeling the thunder shaking the rafters under her palms. The very house was alive around them.

His lips, his tongue, his fingers centered the heat and the sparks and the thumping concussions of the air into her body. She pounded on the ceiling, not in fear, but triumph. She could feel again, at last.

"I want to hear you," John called up to her, just like their day in another storm. But the scream was trapped in her throat, as though held there by a vise grip around her neck. Then one more great clap of thunder that shook the room and another bolt of lightning lit the room bright as a summer day and it happened. Her anger and fear and anguish rose and filled her body, but then blossomed to pure pleasure. The echo of a cry of terror became joy, changed to a call of utter relief and release, wave after wave until she lost her grip on the ceiling and slid down, her fingertips tracing sweat along the plaster.

"That's my girl," John gasped, the pleasure in his voice mirroring her exact feelings.

Shifting, she draped herself along his long body, trying to find her breath again, her limbs liquid. Her thigh nudged his hard length. "Oh dear," she moaned. "Something must be done."

"Don't give it a thought," he said, chuckling in her ear, combing her tangled hair.

The thunder was in the distance now. Suddenly, rain started to pepper the roof right over their heads.

"Just need to get my wind back," she promised, pushing herself up on his chest and reaching down to align their bodies. John's hands skipped over her like a boy in a candy shop trying to grab all the treats. Her breasts, her hips, tracing down her stomach to caress where their hips joined.

Looming over him, she kissed him again and again, matching the rhythm of their undulation. Instincts took over, and all the voices that wanted to tell them otherwise were drowned out by the rain.

It was not too loud to cover John's rejoicing—promises and gratitude, all babbled out in a flood as the water running through the drainpipe under the window. Ripples passed through Anna's body too, not as strong as earlier, but enough to give her more satisfaction that she'd not just been imagining it before.

This time his body was equally loose, but he wouldn't let her roll off him. "You're right where you need to be," he told her, his thick arms wrapped snugly around her, his wide palm cradling the back of her head as she aimlessly kissed his neck and throat.

"But I am worried about something," he added, making her instantly tense.

"Yes?"

"What if it's the bed?"

"What?" she asked with a snort.

"The bed. You don't think we'll have to take it back to Downton with us, do you?"

They started to laugh, and she clung to him to keep from bouncing off.

"This feels good," he rasped.

"I should hope so," she said, a bit indignant that he wasn't expressing more rapture.

"Feels good," he repeated, his voice slow with exhaustion.

She understood now. Two words held a lot of meaning.

"Yes, I'm glad the storm broke," she said, speaking at cross purposes intentionally. She felt his smile against her hair.

* * *

Mrs. Hughes had rented a beach chair, damn the expense. Her hat tipped low on her head to block the sinking sun, she was very comfortable indeed. A shadow fell over her, blocking the light.

She peered up and saw it was Anna. She struggled to stand. "Take the chair."

Pressing her back to the seat, Anna shook her head. "No, no. You've been much more vigorous than me. You went wading with Mr. Carson and kept him from drowning!" Her eyes twinkled.

Ignoring the younger woman's sass, Mrs. Hughes scooted sideways on the chair. "Join me then."

Anna sat and smoothed her skirt. "What a lovely day."

"Where's Mr. Bates gotten to?" Mrs. Hughes asked, looking around.

"He and Mr. Moseley went up the arcade to see if they could beat the lads at some game—Or at least that's their story. I think they may want to view some naughty flickers."

Mrs. Hughes pressed her lips together. She didn't find this humorous as Anna evidently did. She apparently had different standards for a married man and for Mr. Moseley... But this topic did make her wonder...

Carefully, she said, "Things seem better for you and Mr. Bates. You two have been much more comfortable with each other since I've been here." She stumbled a bit over this. She'd come across the couple embracing in the downstairs shadows more than once. Finding a room for them had been a good deed.

Anna quickly squeezed her hand and as though reading her mind, said, "We so appreciate our room. It's very private."

Mrs. Hughes flushed.

Her gaze on the lazy waves, Anna's face was radiant.

Remembering the old train ticket that she'd given to Lady Mary, Mrs. Hughes said, "You seem very happy. I'm so glad, after the past year—"

"Yes, and I think that I'm going to be happier still."

"Oh?" Mrs. Hughes asked.

Pleating her skirt with quick fingers, Anna murmured: "I still need to see a doctor, but I'm fairly sure. I've always been so regular—"

Mrs. Hughes leaned against her. "My dear," she gasped with delight.

Anna began to speak very rapidly. "I think, perhaps...God was testing us. So many years, our hopes denied. And now, after all the time apart, to finally have it happen—"

"Don't say that! God wouldn't hurt you like that!" Mrs. Hughes protested passionately. "He wouldn't ask such a high price!"

"We cannot say, I suppose," Anna said, her voice drifting like the seabreeze. "All I know is, I may have everything I want in the world by this time next year."

"Have you told Mr. Bates?"

"I'll tell him tonight."

"We're on the six o'clock train after tea," Mrs. Hughes pointed out. "You won't want to tell him back at the London house. It'll be such a rabble."

"We'll be staying."

"He didn't say anything," said Mrs. Hughes.

Anna laughed. "John hasn't said anything to me either. He thinks that he's surprising me. But I saw that he'd tucked a change of smalls into our basket when I was looking for hand cream earlier. We'll spend the night, take a stroll on the esplanade under the lights after supper...I think that I'll tell him then."

"That will be lovely," Mrs. Hughes agreed.

They noted Mr. Bates making his way across the beach, his gait slower than usual due to the deep sand. Anna's face lit up, her eyes glowing.

"Or he may guess before then," Mrs. Hughes said, her throat tightening.

* * *

When the Granthams returned to Downton Abbey, Anna asked the Countess if she may purchase the glass globe with the dancing figures. She'd been thinking a great deal about it again and had asked John if they could spare the money. He'd agreed easily.

"Globe?" Her ladyship furrowed her brow, having to think of what Anna spoke. When she remembered, she said huffily: "Of course not!"

Anna's gaze dropped to her shoe tips, embarrassed to put her employer in this position.

Lady Grantham waved her hand. "I wouldn't dream of taking your money for it. It's of no use to me. But whatever will you do with it?"

"We think that we may be able to get the figures out without breaking them. Would you want want them then?" Anna asked uncertainly.

"I think not." The Countess glanced around the library. "There are so many pretty things, why have a broken one?"

"If you're sure, m'lady," Anna said, allowing herself to be excited.

"Of course," her ladyship said with a warm smile. "Enjoy it."

John had spoken to a builder in Ripon and borrowed his window glazing tools. Carefully, swaddled in thick leather gloves as Anna stood off to the side wringing her hands, he cut around the gilded base with a blade. There was a horrible cracking sound, but it was just the fissure breaking all the way open. Gently, he lay the broken pieces aside and they looked at the dancers, freed at last from the fogged glass.

Next, he used a pumice stone to smooth and polish the sharp edge all the way around so that it could not cut Anna as she cleaned it. Finally, he placed it on the high shelf that she'd had him hang just for this purpose.

Anna tucked under his arm and gazed up at it. "Lovely," she said with great satisfaction. "It's not even noticeable that the globe is gone."

"We'll just have to be careful with it, but the figures will be fine," John said in agreement. His grip tightened on her arm and he place his other hand low on her belly. "Now our home will be complete."

She smiled up at him. "Yes. You were right. We just needed some time."

He kissed her temple.

"My mother used to say that time heals all wounds," she said slowly. "But I think she was wrong this one time. Some wounds don't heal, but they can become something beautiful."

The sunlight struck the glass figures, rendering them luminant, and they danced once more.

~The end


End file.
